Brass
by lookskindagreyout
Summary: It was going to happen sometime- you can't run away from it all forever. A good ol' fashion whodunit AU, set during the 1940's. Pairings are a surprise!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One.

The bright tingle of a spoon against the inside of a tea glass was not an uncommon sound, in his line of work. Nor was the scrape of fork tines against porcelain, or the knock of a salt shaker hitting the countertop, half of the holes on the lid still taped over.

Even as the bell over the door jingled to signal a new arrival, he did not look up from his task of clearing away the plates and glasses from a booth near the corner of the dining car, sweeping grainy sugar off the countertop into his dish tub as he set to wiping down the table.

Her voice, however, is what had first struck him.

"Hello, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with directions?"

She wasn't addressing him, of course. She was talking to Edwina, at the counter. But even so, Peter found himself somehow, foolishly, enraptured with curiosity. The strange new woman looked too sophisticated, too composed, to be in his diner, her platinum blonde ringlets bouncy about the shoulders of her tan, double-breasted coat, and her dark red lips and dark eye makeup striking against her pale complexion, but in no way gaudy. This was a woman from the city, he could tell, and the way she gripped her black leather driving gloves told him that she was alone.

Peter slowly straitened, wiping his palms on the front of his grungy lap apron.

Something about her seemed out of place, and he could not put his finger on it.

Her voice was soft, but clear over the distant buzz of jazz on the kitchen radio, "I'm wondering where I can take the turn-on to get to the 76..."

"Oh, hun, the 76 is a few counties, from here," Edwina said apologetically, "But where are you headed?"

"Atlantic city," the stranger said with a wince, and Edwina's eyes rounded. The woman chuckled wryly "I'm lost, aren't I?"

"And then some. Take a seat, sweetheart, and I'll talk to Mill and see if we can't get you some proper directions to the 76."

"Thank you," the woman said. She slumped gracefully onto a seat at the counter with a sigh as Edwina hurried back to the kitchen.

Peter wiped his hands on his front again thoughtfully. At last he turned and shuffled down the aisle, dumping his tub into the waiter's station and throwing off his apron, fiddling with the front of his shirt for a few moments before slipping behind the counter to approach her, "What can I get you?" he questioned with a smile. He suddenly wished he'd shaved, that morning.

She looked up at him and blinked, "Oh. I won't be here long."

"'You sure? We have to best iced tea in Donniston."

She paused, "You're the only _café_ in Donniston."

Peter gave her another smile.

She laughed, "Fine. I'll have an iced tea. But just a small one."

"Comin' up."

Peter watched her put sugar into her tea, and made for light conversation, "So I heard you're headed to Atlantic City. Are you in for a bit of gambling?"

"No," she answered.

"Well, I doubt you're going for the fruit cocktail."

She laughed. Peter stared. She gave him a mysterious smile that made his neck grow hot, and sipped her tea, "This is good, thank you."

They were silent for a few moments, and Peter chuckled quietly, "Fine. But here, listen…" he grabbed up a napkin and a plucked the pen out of his shirt pocket, beginning to sketch out a small map, "When you get down the main drag, take the turn off to Trenton street. If you follow it all the way to the end, all the way to the cul-de-sac, you can turn left onto Abney, take it a few miles onto Cherry Hill, and jump onto the 95. That should intersect with the 76 somewhere around Bellmawr." He finished the map, sliding it over to her.

"And this?" she questioned, touching the numbers on the corner.

"That's my phone number," Peter smiled as she glanced up at him, "in case you get lost again."

"Peter?" she questioned at his name scrawled above the number, and he nodded, "Thanks."

"Enjoy your tea," Peter murmured, sweeping away. He gathered the tub of dishes and carted them away, into the kitchen, and he could feel her eyes following him the entire way. He ignored Edwina and her husband arguing over the map in their native Polish as he selected another apron, trying it around his waist.

She was gone when he emerged again, but he found a substantial tip under a napkin with the name 'Olivia' written in longhand. He was smiling as he read it, until he saw the newspaper article she had left behind:

SIDE SHOW JAZZ CLUB DUO IMPRESSES NEW YORK CRITIC

The article had a black and white picture nestled in the newsprint, depicting an aging man with graying curls, seated at a piano, with a wide grin and a black eye, and a young singer with dark skin and bouncy curls balanced in his lap, smiling and sporting his fedora fetchingly. Peter glared at the photograph, "God damn it, Walter."

xXx

The bright tingle of silver against a martini glass was not an uncommon sound, in her line of work. It sounded like the distant, weak echo of the drum of piano keys, a tenor in the sounds that followed; the gentle rush of a brush against a symbol, the rasp of a saxophone, the quiet chatter of the very few patrons they had, tonight.

He took the solace of the low lighting and the haze of the cigar smoke, blue in the twilight, to address her quietly, "How've you been, love?"

"You've forgotten my name again, haven't you?" Astrid frowned, sitting on the other half of his bench with him, facing his opposite, away from the keys.

Walter played around with a b sharp for a few moments, and moved on with the song, smiling down at his hands, "I did that," he admitted.

Astrid sighed, brushing a stray curl from her eyes, "Its Astrid, Walter. _Astrid_. I don't think you can keep staying at my place if you keep forgetting."

"So-_rry_," he murmured in sing-song. He'd always had a unique ability to speak, with his music, and his notes told her another story; and a troublesome one, at that.

"You've got a black eye," Astrid's brows drew in concern as she graced her fingers around his eye to his cheek, "did someone come to see you, today?"

"A few… old friends," Walter answered moderately, "nothing to be concerned about. Nothing for you to be concerned about, that is."

"If someone is hurting you, I'm concerned," Astrid said, "How bad are you? How much did they get?"

"Nothing more than what I owed them, darlingheart. But… they did bruise my armpit, which is bothersome. Took my good cufflinks, too."

"Will you be able to do the show tonight?"

"Sure, sure."

"Really, Walter. I don't want you doing it if you're in bad shape. I'm sure Amos won't mind."

Walter laughed quietly, "Amos doesn't mind _you_, m'dear. But he _hates_ me- and who wouldn't? An old man kipping rent-free in his greenroom can't be enjoyable. I daresay, a great many people hate me. But it's fine, we'll carry on with tonight. Besides, I need the money. Arty, you're on _fire_," he softly called to the saxophone player, who winked back in thanks.

"You _always_ need the money," Astrid chided gently, tipping up the brim of his fedora with a fond, though slightly sad, smile, "it'll be the death of you, Walt. Gambling."

"Not if it brings you grief, love."

"You bring me grief all around, Walter. But I adore you," she leaned across they keys, kissing him on the cheek, "I'm going to go and get ready. Tell Arty to grab his sheet music- Amos requested the Jersey Bounce, and I wrote it out for him."

"Knowing Arty, he already has it," Walter mused, "the man breathes through his sax."

"Better than on the dice, Walter. See you," and Astrid got to her feet, ducking behind the stage curtain to descend the darkened steps to head for the dressing rooms.

An oil lamp cast greasy light on her path, as she traversed obstacles of old stage props, echoes of a bygone era when the Domino club was one of the hottest nightclubs outside of Atlantic City. Back when her father worked here, before the war.

Astrid pushed open the door of her dressing room, silent on its spring hinges, and it waved shut behind her with a slight movement of the still air. Astrid reached up to switch on the makeup lights over her mirror, pausing a few moments to gently scrunch her hair and check her makeup, before reaching back to begin unhooking the clasps of her dress, at last slipping in off her shoulders to drift to her hips. She tugged at the hem, stepping out of the garment to stand in her undergarments and leggings as she sang over her lyrics softly. She stepped back behind her changing screen to reach for her sequin show dress.

"How are you?" someone asked, and she jumped slightly. The voice came from the small couch against the wall, opposite the screen. She recognized it immediately.

"I'm alright. How are you, September? Long time, no see. I thought you avoided this place like the plague."

"I don't avoid _you_."

"Of course not, sweetheart. I never lacked, when I was with you," Astrid emerged in her getup to see him sitting very stiffly in the corner, his black fedora on the seat beside him and his hands on his knees. His pale complexion and destitution of any kind of hair, on his bald head and barren face, made him seem an exotic and bizarre decoration, among the coats and feathery boas hanging against the wall. She smiled warmly, turning slightly, "Zip me up?" she asked.

His hands were smooth and hinted no sign of interest, as they brushed her skin and he tugged the thin zipper up the curves of her back. It was the same kind of disinterest he'd shown years before- an almost inhuman indifference that was his trademark. Astrid accepted September for what he was, and thanked him after he had finished, adjusting her bodice.

"Are you here for the show?" Astrid questioned, "We haven't seen you in ages- tell me you'll stay."

"I cannot. Walter- he is well?"

"Yes and no. Still gambling, still losing."

"You are…with him?"

Astrid laughed, and September only watched emotionlessly, his barren gaze nearly unnerving, "That's not how it works, September, you know that. Walter is never 'with' anybody. He's just staying at my place, is all."

September did not nod, but fully understood, "I see."

"And anyways, I'm sure he would love to see you, if you'd reconsider staying," Astrid critiqued her makeup and darkened her eyeliner into the mirror, sitting at the makeup counter.

"I cannot," September repeated, "but I am certain Peter will stay around."

"Who's Peter? A new beau?" Astrid joked.

"Walter Bishop's son."

"Walter has a son?" Astrid questioned cynically, penciling her eyebrows darker, "he never said anything-" But September had disappeared.

xXx


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

Olivia had been having the same dream, for three years, now. Something that was not a nightmare, but still unnerving enough to cause her to wake with a start every night. She thought that she would even be bored, with something that had played out in her mind so many times, but each and every time, she was left confused and hollow.

She started her journey in a bathtub. There was no water in it, as she looked up from her contorted position lying on cold porcelain, noting the empty shower rings that sported no curtain, and the peeling whitewash on the walls. She would rise, naked and wet, and climb out of the tub, her feet stumbling against chipped tile as she supported herself against a rusted and cracked sink.

There was a towel out for her, on the back of the toilet, and clothes. But they appeared to have been sitting out for a very long time, faded with age and dust. Still, not knowing why it was important to dress, Olivia dried herself, combed out her hair at the dirty mirror, and pulled on the faded grey sundress.

Her hand found a rusted deadbolt, and she jammed it back, letting the door to the bathroom swing open. Most of what happened next was infuriatingly fuzzy, and she suddenly found herself outside, the sunlight hot on her cheeks and shoulders. Distantly she could hear the sound of wind chimes. And a pain would strike her- debilitating hunger. It drove her footsteps, across a long dirt lot, to a house that stood behind a half-fallen fence. Everything around her looked fairly new, but rusted nearly beyond recognition.

The door was open, she found after she mounted the steps, and she didn't even have to push it wider to enter. A hot breeze shifted her dress, the sound of wind grazing on the overgrown trees outside the wide bay windows to her side.

Her stomach ached insatiably. But somehow, she knew that there was someone there, and she followed her thoughts past the tattered wallpaper and dust-blown rugs, the bowed floorboards creaking silently under her bare feet. She reached a place where a man sat in a crippled-looking kitchen chair, his back to her as he gazed at the breeze shifting the tattered lace curtains in the sun. He held in his hand a dark, ripe-looking apple, and he would turn with a smile, tossing it to her, "There's no one left but us, you know."

Again, Olivia woke with a violent jerk. And again she lie in bed, her hands over her eyes as she tried desperately to be sure of his face, but every time, when she would nearly snatch it out of her memories, it would change. Her stepfather? Her partner back in New York, Charlie Francis? Her sources expert, Philip Broyles? Was it any of the countless criminals she had seen locked away?

But tonight… tonight, was it Walter Bishop?

Olivia Dunham, PI out of New York proper, shifted in the starchy hotel sheets, at last sitting up as hot hair fell over her grim expression. She glared at the ugly green wallpaper and awful seashell-theme decor across the room as a car passed outside, the headlights flashing between the thin, white blinds. The car was a fairly new make- it didn't have blackout covers.

…Why was she thinking of cars?

Olivia switched on the lamp at her bedside, sighing as she ran her fingers back through her tangles. She frowned- as easy as they made it seem in the pictures, curls did not come without their price. Ignoring her agitation at her own shortcomings, Olivia reached for her case file, which was never far. She pulled the manila envelope into her lap, tugging at the wax string that held it shut.

The job was not to catch a criminal. She was unused to this. Her task was simple- find Walter Bishop, and bring him back to New York. The job had been commissioned by a financial tycoon by the name of William Bell, famous for any number of boring, business-like reasons. But Bell had not come in person- the job had arrived in the form of a woman by the name of Nina Sharp. Sharp herself was something of a celebrity- a top New York fashion designer that had quietly slipped away from the limelight, possibly on purpose. There was a substantial amount of elements in this case that were fishy… but Olivia had agreed to take it anyway.

Business had been slow, and she hadn't realized how hard it would be to _find _the bastard. The only picture she had of Walter Bishop was a photograph from the War… useless, now that so much time had passed. The only break she'd caught was from a newspaper, ironically… some half-pager about a hole-in-the-wall jazz club. But what had synched it was the photograph--

Where _was_ that photograph…?

Olivia paused from shuffling through her paperwork as she stumbled over a folded restaurant napkin, with a map drawn on in. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she shook her head, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.

Peter. He'd been cute. But there was something about him that she couldn't quite place. Familiarity? Perhaps.

Olivia crammed the napkin in with the rest of the pages, sweeping them aside as she shifted the covers away from her legs, deciding it was time to start the morning. Whatever time it was, anyways.

xXx

"Go, Banana, go!"

_Banana Split, filling the gap between Whiskey King and Tiger Feathers…_

"Go, Banana, you oat-eating sunnovabitch! Go!"

_Banana Split, passing up Tiger Feathers, looking to place… No- it's Banana Split, neck-and-neck with Root Beer Float! I can't believe it!_

"Go! Go, baby, go!"

…_What's this? Banana Split appears to be falling behind…_

"No… no, what…?"

_It looks like he's thrown a shoe, folks…_

"No, Banana, no!"

_It appears that Banana Split won't be able to place- Tiger Feathers and Whiskey King, charging up from the rear- it looks like it's all over for Banana Split…_

"GOD DAMMIT!" Walter Bishop, shameless gambler extraordinaire, proceeded to repeatedly strike the hand rail with his ballot, before savagely twisting it in two, flinging the tatters of paper about, "Never bet on a bay! Useless creatures, the lot of them!" Banana Split and his brightly clad jockey tottered past distantly, and Walter leaned over the rail, bawling, "You're useless, y'know that?!"

He slumped against the rail, blowing air through his cheeks loudly with agitation. He lifted his fedora from his head, scratching back his slightly mussed curls in an attempt to calm himself. The scores were already being placed up in the board for display, and he glared up at the painted numbers bitterly, before suddenly brightening. He turned and stooped, scrambling to scoop up the scraps of his rage, stuffing them into the front of his grey tweed blazer. He darted off, giggling madly.

"I would like very much to cash in!" Walter said breathlessly, stumbling to spill paper bits all over the counter of the ballot box.

The clerk looked taken aback, "Sir-"

"The odds, the odds! Banana Spilt- he didn't place, gimpy bastard, or heaven forbid _win_- but he finished! I get money!"

The clerk stared at him, then at the mass of rubbish on the desk before him, "Ah!" Walter exclaimed, and began to piece together the unrecognizable ballot, "See, here? I mean, a bit is missing, but that's me, Walter Bishop. It. Me." Walter pointed back and fourth from himself to the incomplete page, nodding until the clerk had no choice but to agree.

Walter felt fairly pleased with himself as he emerged from the betting hall, fingering a neat fold of seventeen dollars in the low pocket of his slacks. It felt grainy and out-of-place, as his pockets had not seen money- at least money won, not borrowed- in a great while. He breathed in the smell of the grass, stale peanuts, and straw with a contented smile. Whoever said money earned was better that money won was a _jackass_.

He should celebrate with a banana split. Or a root beer float. Or a sundae! He was feeling up to it- he might just have them all! Victory!

"Bishop."

Walter felt his heart fall to somehow punch him in the lower intestines.

"Bishop- It's your buddy, Davy. Don'tcha got somethin' ta say, pal?" Walter felt a large hand on his shoulder, squeezing menacingly.

_Repeatedly_ punch him in the lower intestines.

Walter swallowed, turning with a wry grin, "Davy! …Mi Amigo. How are you? Listen, I've got-"

"You've got some money to give me, buddy. You're a good guy- I didn't even have to ask," Davy, a large, rather surly man with a head that had always seemed far too small for the mass of his bulky, refirgerator-esk physique, gave Walter a smile full of gaped, nearly pointed teeth. "I'm sure you avoiding me for three months was a misunderstanding, huh?"

"It-it was! We don't meet up nearly enough, Davy-"

"Give me my money, Bishop," Davy growled.

"Heh. Yeah." Walter reached into his pocket, flicking a few bills free of the clip before drawing it out, "Listen, Davy- this is all I've got, but I swear I'll get around to giving you the rest…" Davy snatched the billfold from Walter's fingers, doing a quick count over, "Oh! That's good… I wasn't sure you knew how to count, hah hah…"

Davy glanced up at him, and Walter swallowed, his face washing of color. He gave a squeak of fear as Davy reached forward, "be gentle!" his hand diving into Walter's pocket to tear out the money he had hidden, "Now, where did that come from…?" Walter mused casually.

"Don't play games with me Bishop. You get me the rest of my money, and we'll see that you don't loose _another _finger. _Get it_." and he shuffled off, flipping through the notes.

Walter glared after him, his face red with anger and shame and his thumb played over the empty space of his missing ring finger, on his right hand, "As if you would have the _guts_, you prick," Walter murmured under his breath bitterly, "I _killed _the man who took this one, and I'd kill you, too, you gorilla-brained sunnova…" his hand tightened into an incomplete fist, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

Walter shrugged his coat strait on his shoulders with a quick sigh, and his stomach grumbled in protest, adding insult to injury. Well, there was nothing to it, now. Maybe he would get that lovely young woman he lived with to make him a sandwich… and perhaps lend him a bit of cash.

xXx


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three.

"Peter! Hey!" Sam Weiss emerged from beneath the hood of a Ford, his oil-spotted boots scuffing the thin layer of dust that constantly coated the cement slab of the garage, "How's things? I haven't seen you in ages, buddy…" he cleaned his hands on a spare rag in the back pocket of his messy cover-all, then shook Peter's hand.

"Hey, Sam," Peter smiled, "How's the shop?"

"Good, good. Better since you left," Sam joked, looking over his shoulder at the open-faced auto shop, "got a Ford with the hiccups, here, I'm choosing to operate. What about you? Still pushing blue plate specials at the diner?"

"Yep."

Sam gave him a genuine smile, "Good."

"That's kind of why I'm here, Sam," Peter said, raising his hand to scratch the back of his neck with an uneasy smile, "I… I kind of need the car."

Sam's smile faltered slightly.

"Listen- I'm not going far-"

Sam held up a hand to silence him, "Hold up, zipper. Just where are you thinking of going?"

Peter fidgeted slightly, "Atlantic City," he winced, and Sam's eyes widened.

"That's pretty far, Peter. What is it that you need, in A City? You're not thinking of gambling, are you?"

"No, no. I don't need anything, I just- I have to go," Peter explained.

Sam eyed him suspiciously.

"Alright! I met a girl at the diner the other day, and she was headed to Atlantic city," Peter grumped, "It was just some girl, I'm guessing she was from New York, she looked like it, and she stopped in for directions at the diner, and we got to talking, and-"

"Whoa whoa whoa," Sam said, "You want to take the car and split to Atlantic City because of some girl you met? Do you even know her name?"

"Olivia. But that's not the point! I'm not going for her, okay?" Peter felt a blush creeping up his neck at Sam frowned at him flatly, "She left this," he snapped, stuffing the newspaper article into Sam's hand.

Sam read over it with a raised brow, "Your father?"

"I guess you could call him that. I don't know what's going on, Sam, but I'm going to have to get to Atlantic City to find out," Peter said, taking the article back from him and folding it to slide it into the back pocket of his slacks, "So I really, really need the car, okay?"

Sam considered, "What did Mill say?"

"He says business is slow. The diner can live without me, until I get back. It shouldn't take long.

"Do you feel you need the car?" Sam questioned.

"Well, the Greyhound only comes once a week, and that was yesterday, so yeah."

"Okay," Sam smiled, "I've got the keys in the office, follow me."

Sam and Peter tramped their way past the stacked carcasses of spent vehicles, at last reaching the tin enclosure at the back of the shop and pulling the wooden door open to the office. It was a small place, cluttered with a wide desk with a fan, a swivel chair, and shelves filled with dusty old auto manuals, "Heya, Rufus," Peter murmured, stooping to scratch behind the ratted ears of an old mutt dog snoozing on the floor.

Sam shuffled around in a cabinet of drawers for a bit, at last emerging with a ring of old keys, rusted only slightly on one side. He shook them by their ratted leather keychain, and they gave a jingle, "It's out back, under the tarp, haven't touched the piece of junk since you parked it," Sam said, turning to toss the keys to Peter, "It's all yours."

Peter smiled, "Thanks, Sam."

Sam waved off his gratitude, flouncing into the swivel chair, "As long as you feel like you're ready, Peter. I only took the damn car because you didn't think you could have it, anymore. The only reason I do anything is because you ask me to. You may not _know _that you're asking, but you do."

Peter looked down at the keys, feeling them each in turn, briefly remembering what each of them meant- his old apartment, his old car, his old life. He returned his attention to Sam, "And I mean it. Thanks, man."

"Don't make me regret it, Peter," Sam sighed, "and she'd better be a knockout."

xXx

Astrid watched as Walter wolfed down the last of his bologna and cheese sandwich, and grabbed for his glass of milk, "What starves you so?" she questioned with an affectionate smirk, propping her chin on the heel of her hand.

"I won, toady," Walter mumbled through mouthfuls.

Astrid looked surprised, "Really? So raising Cain has proven fruitful?"

Walter frowned with a milk mustache, "There's no harm in spending the morning at the track," he muttered, wiping his lips on a napkin as he pushed his empty plate and glass away.

"Sure. Especially when you're busted. What's not to lose?"

"As I said, I won today. For the most part, excluding minor details. So-"

"Walter, I'm not loaning you any more money," Astrid said, gathering up his dishes and clearing them away, "I'm letting you stay here, and that's it."

"You're not turning on me, too?!" Walter demanded, tugging his suspenders strait as he rose from his chair, following her into the kitchen, "You don't understand! This could be the beginning of a streak, a winning to end my consecutive losses-"

"It's always a streak, Walter. Last time it was blackjack. Before that, roulette. I'm not buying it, this time," Astrid settled the dishes into the sink, twisting on the tap to rinse them.

"Bad luck can't last forever!" Walter insisted.

Astrid smiled at him wryly, drying her hands on a cleaning cloth, "Maybe you should stop to think of just how lucky you _are_, Walter," she murmured. She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, then pat his shoulder, "Now go and get cleaned up. Amos wants us down at the club early tonight."

Walter gave a huff, jamming his hands into his pockets and sweeping out of the kitchen. Astrid chuckled as she listened to him stomp up the stairs and slam the door.

A few minutes passed as Astrid listened to a new record over grainy radio speakers, musing the newspaper on the kitchen counter. Her thoughts suddenly stumbled across September, and their bizarre meeting the night before. September had never lied to her, but if Walter _did _have a son, he would have said something.

...Right?

She ascended the steps after Walter, quietly crossing the hall to the door of the bedroom. She raised her knuckles, and paused, suddenly uncertain. She listened to him softly half-humming the lyrics of a song they would perform tonight, before she struck the door, "It's open," Walter answered, and Astrid pushed herself inside.

"I forgot to tell you," Astrid said, as Walter was musing his chin over with a strait razor in the bathroom, leaning over the sink, "I saw September, the other day."

"Oh?" Walter grimaced as he suddenly nicked his chin, a spot of blood showing through the suds and severed whiskers, "and how was he?"

"Busy, I guess. He didn't stay around long."

"He never does."

"He said he couldn't stay. But he said someone named Peter would," Astrid watched as Walter suddenly paused, in rinsing his face in the basin, "do you know what he's talking about?" she questioned.

Walter was silent for a few moments, slapping on some aftershave, "I met Joe Lewis once, did I ever tell you?"

"You didn't," So it was true. Astrid was almost sad she had even brought it up. "I get the feeling you don't tell me a lot of things, Walter." Astrid crossed the room, leaning against the bathroom door sill, crossing her arms across her chest, "When did you meet him?"

"In the service. I was just stupid enough to get into a fight with him, too, outside a little place in Hong Kong. Cleaned my clock, and I deserved it." Walter dried his face, and pulled the plug on the sink, "The most ignorant part was that, somehow, admittedly in a drunken stupor, I felt that I could win."

Astrid said nothing, waiting for his point.

Walter moved past her, into the bedroom, to gather up a clean shirt, "I may be a fool, but I like to think that at least, with time, I have learned to choose my fights wisely. I only hope that September has come to the same conclusion."

"Maybe he thinks that you can win this one," Astrid said.

Walter stuffed his shirt tails into his trousers, "Perhaps he's meddling where he doesn't belong."

xXx


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four.

"I hate seeing you like this, Philip," Olivia said from the back seat.

"I've been in worse," Philip Broyles replied, "You've seen to that."

"Again, sorry. But it can't be all that bad- the uniform is…"

"…stupid?"

Olivia laughed uneasily, "Not the words I would have chosen. But you look good in anything, Philip, you know that." Olivia glanced out of the window to watch the street as they pulled away from the curb at the hotel, and she reached forward to pluck a bit of lint from the shoulder of his grey driver's uniform.

"Flattery will get you no where, Dunham," Philip frowned at her via the rearview mirror.

"So, what's the talk? You promised me source work, didn't you?" Olivia said, "Fill me in. What have you got on Bishop?"

"A bit. And none of it painting the portrait of a saint," Philip answered.

"What do you mean?"

"I met a few people who know him. Not many of them too terribly fond of him- he owed them all money. Apparently Bishop's got himself deep in the hole, and he's only digging himself deeper. They said he makes a decent amount, as the pianist at the Domino Club, but he's quick to lose it."

"Lose it how?"

"Apparently our man is one hell of a gambler. And not one known to win, either. The people I've spoken with have informed me that he's the most unlucky bastard they've ever known."

"Do you think he owes William Bell money?"

Philip shook his head, "I don't think so. Other than owing some serious cash, Bishop keeps a strangely low profile. And what's stranger is that no one seems to know just where he came from. Apparently, he just showed up, one day, and faded in with the rest of the washed-up cardsharps with nothing to lose."

"Then what would William Bell want with him?"

Philip said nothing.

Olivia sighed, "This is a weird one, Philip. I'm not used to the idea of working with such sketchy details."

"You can always ask Bishop," Philip replied frankly.

Olivia chuckled, "True. But what, then? If Bishop has prided himself in disappearing from the face of the earth by now, why in the hell would he agree to come back with me to New York? This whole thing, it's just…" Olivia sighed, propping her elbow on the doorsill and watching the scenery gloomily, "…Bizarre."

"You've never been one to leave the unknown that way for long, Olivia," Philip pointed out. He pulled the car to the curb, "We're here."

"Anything else I should know about?" Olivia asked, gathering up her things as the bright lights over the Domino club entrance flashed off the windshield. They made Philip's face strangely stoic as he turned to face her in the seat.

"He's staying with a girl. Astrid Farnsworth, the singer. She looks after him, for the most part."

"Are they…?"

"No word."

"What else?"

Philip smiled slightly, and kicked his door open, getting out to open her door for her.

The air in the establishment seemed blue, in the heavy haze of cigar smoke and the fume of martinis. Olivia was accepted at the door, and escorted to a secluded booth in full rage of the small bandstand. The musicians were chattering quietly amongst themselves as they were setting up, the clatter of chairs and music stands barely audible over the distant jukebox. Even the footfalls of the waitrons were softened by the plush, maroon carpet, as they avoided the vacant dance floor.

Olivia watched causally over her red wine, finding the piano bench vacant.

Her eyes slowly spanned the rest of the floor, unsurprised to find it occupied by only a few patrons and their nearly finished dinners. It was apparent that, even after a good review in the local newspaper, business was slow. She was briefly wondering what it was that could have caused such a deflation in activity, when the bright tingle of piano keys met her ears and she glanced up expectantly. The saxophone player was tuning to a B, and she returned to her drink.

"May I bring you a menu, ma'am?" and white-vested waiter questioned politely.

"Oh- no, thank you," Olivia answered, and asked before her headed away, "I'm sorry, but could you tell me when the show starts?"

The waiter glanced down at his wristwatch, "Any minute, ma'am," he answered pleasantly, though by his expression she could tell that it was supposed to have started already.

"Thank you," and he nodded with a smile, hurrying away.

xXx

Walter didn't let Astrid see the sick look of worry on his face as he fixed his tie, plucking up his starched collar around his throat. He knew that he should be on, already, that he was just stalling, and he couldn't hide behind the curtains forever…

"Walter?"

Walter turned, a smile hiding his doubt, "Are we ready?" he questioned as Astrid raised an inquiring brow.

"We've been ready for an hour, Walter," she replied flatly, "You just keep getting lost on the way to the bench. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, dove, nothing at all," he replied cheerfully, tipping up his fedora to scratch his forehead.

Astrid set her hands on her sequined hips with a frown.

Walter ignored her and mounted the steps to stage left, peeking through a small tear in the curtain, "Do you think he's out there?" Walter questioned uneasily.

Astrid followed after him, " Walter, _go_!" and she shoved him out, onto the stage.

Walter had never once felt such a rush of stage fright. The lights flashed off the copper-colored silk of his vest front, and he felt panic sweat start at his hairline and the crease of his lower back. He was quick to regain a proper stride as he crossed the stage quickly, tucking himself away behind his piano.

"Where've you been?" Arty questioned.

"Mind your own business," Walter muttered.

Arty shrugged, and returned to a breathy trill, continuing with his lazy warm-up.

Walter rubbed his moist palms on the front of his slacks, and set his fingers to the keys, swallowing as he waited for the notes to come to him, trying to hear the sound of the high-hat brush over his own pulse in his ears.

Holding his breath, he glanced up, his eyes spanning the club.

The place was nearly empty, as usual, the regulars seated at the bar and a few couples scattered amongst the tables, their faces eerie glowing shapes in the dark from the flickering light of candles. Not one of them struck his attention.

Peter wasn't here.

Walter's thumb fell on a flat note, as he heaved a sigh of relief, delving into his pocket to draw out a handkerchief and dry his forehead. Walter stowed the cloth back in his pocket, atop a tattered baseball card he usually kept in his empty wallet, and he returned his hand to the ivories, running a perfect scale despite his missing digit.  
Astrid emerged onto the stage, smiling at the tatters of applause that announced her arrival. Her dress shimmered as she took to the microphone, beginning her re-written rendition of the Jersey Bounce.

He'd done the show before- the song was new, but not much else was. The lighting, the atmosphere, the smell of dust on the curtains and wood polish on the piano. He could nearly see it all in his mind, when he shut his eyes, hearing Astrid's voice in his ear as if he were the only one listening. Even if Peter weren't here… this was his world.

Walter looked up from his keys as he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Someone was watching him. A blonde, in the corner booth. A blonde; very pretty, very suspicious. Her eyes did not move as they met his, and a smile touched her dark lips.

Walter stared in confusion for a few brief seconds before Arty's sax squeaked, and Walter winced. He looked over at him, and Arty winked as Astrid gave an effort to laugh it off. It was all part of the show.

xXx


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five.

He could remember his father taking him to a boxing match on his seventh birthday. Despite the loud noises and odd smells, Peter had been having fun- he was simply overjoyed to be with Walter, doing what his father called 'Man stuff', which usually included gambling that Peter was instructed not to tell his mother about. He could remember watching, wide-eyed, as each of the boxers landed heavy strikes on one another, and with each, his father's expression seemed to change, as if the hits were on him.

His father had lost a very large bet, that night.

When Peter had at last shaken Walter back to consciousness from his sprawled position in the bloody snow, his eyes filled with tears as he wailed for his father, Walter had only blinked up at him, through a daze, "You're bad luck, son," he had rasped.

That may have been when he had first started to hate his father.

"You look familiar," someone said, breaking his thoughts. Peter glanced up from his task of pumping petrol into his car, and shook his head, pulling his cap down.

"No, sir. I've just got one of those faces. People always think I look like their brother or something."

The station purveyor chuckled, settling his hands into the large front pocket of his apron, "I guess that's what it is. Are you headed into Atlantic City?"

"Yeah." Peter suddenly wanted the conversation to end.

"Don't gamble your shorts off, son."

"I hate gambling."

"A few rattles of the bones never hurt anyone."

Peter snorted, "They always say that," he muttered under his breath, and finished his task, returning the nozzle to the station, "Well, be seeing you," he said, tipping his cap as he climbed into the driver's seat, starting the engine.

"If you chance by a little place called Captain Lows, the drinks are cold," the clerk suggested, "tell the bartender Mark said you were alright," he shifted as Peter looked surprised, "It's only because you look so familiar, and I can't put my finger on it."

"Thank you kindly," Peter murmured, and pulled away.

xXx

There came a soft mew in the dark, breaking her dreams; "Miss."

Astrid blinked awake, raising a hand to rub an eye, "Hmm?" she questioned as someone shook her shoulder, "Walter?"

He stood at her bedside silently, shivering.

"Did you have another bad dream?" she questioned, sitting up and rubbing her features to frown with concern. He stopped her hand from switching on the light, and her brows drew with worry, "Come here, hun, come here. It's alright," she moved over in the bed, sweeping the covers away and patting the mattress, "climb in, sweetie."

Walter climbed into the sheets, and Astrid pulled his shivering form to her, tugging the blankets around his shoulders, "Are you alright, Walter? You're fevering. Have you been drinking?"

Walter said nothing, putting an arm around her waist.

Astrid sighed, kissing his damp forehead and smoothing away sweaty curls, "It's okay. Just go back to sleep," she allowed him to listen to her pulse, and at last their breathing evened, and dreams found them. Silence followed, until an all-too-real rapping drummed Astrid awake.

"Walter." Astrid rolled over, her eyes shut tightly as her hand searched for him in the dark. Her fingers found his ear, making him flinch away, before she stroked the curls against his neck.

"Hmm?" Walter's hand moved from her side and grabbed hers for confirmation, as he blinked his eyes open drowsily, "What is it?"

"Walter, get up. I think someone's at the door."

There was a pause as he listened, and the knocking had stopped, "No, no, there isn't. You dreamt it, dove," Walter settled back in the pillows, giving a sigh as he nuzzled her hair.

"No- just keep listening. There's someone," Astrid released him to pull the blanket around her shoulders as he sat up, rubbing his eyes, "Turn on the light…" Astrid murmured.

"No. If it's someone unscrupulous, I don't want them to know we're in," his voice was deep and raspy from his slumber, his all-but-forgotten Louisianan accent hinting through. It made Astrid smile every time.

"They've been banging on the door for an hour. They _know_ we're in," Astrid chuckled tiredly, "just go and see who it is."

"Okay." Walter delved under the pillow, drawing out a black snub-nose. He pressed the revolver into her lifeless palm, "keep this with you, cher."

"You say the sweetest things," Astrid yawned as Walter climbed from the warm sheets, shrugging in the chill as his feet found his slacks, and he pulled them on over his under shorts, the pressed fabric crinkling with cold. He left the straps of his suspenders to dangle about his legs, and shuffled out of the room. He cursed sharply as he stubbed his toe, "I _told_ you to turn on the light," Astrid pointed out.

"Quiet, you," Walter grumbled, and Astrid laughed. The wooden floor of the hallway creaked hesitantly as he made for the stairs.

She was certain he'd grab the shotgun in the kitchen pantry. Walter was one paranoid old bastard… she just hoped he wouldn't end up shooting someone on her front step, in the dark. And with that thought, Astrid began to get up, pulling on a silk kimono over her nightgown and holding it shut as she switched on the light. She was rubbing the cold from the tip of her nose as she followed him down stairs.

"Walter, leave it," she said as she heard him rummaging about in the pantry.

"Where are the extra shells?" he hissed in the dark.

"Just _leave it_. Get the door." Astrid switched on the lights in the entry way, and Walter moved past her, firmly placing himself between Astrid and the door.

The pounding continued, until Astrid jammed Walter in the kidney and he issued a grunt, pulling the door open, "Yes, hello?! Do you have any idea what time it is?!" He blinked a moment in shock, and Astrid craned her neck to look over his shoulder at the stranger. Astrid exclaimed in surprise at the blonde woman before them, her dress sharp and her fair features flushed slightly with the cold, "…you're not Davy."

"No, sir. My name is Olivia Dunham," the stranger smiled, offering her hand.

"Do I owe you money?"

"I don't think so, sir."

Walter smiled in return, shaking her hand, "I'm Walter Bishop. Uh-" he retracted his grasp as she spotted his missing digit, "-sorry."

Olivia looked as if she thought nothing of it, and raised her eyebrows, arching her neck to look at Astrid, "hello," she smiled.

Astrid prodded Walter aside, shaking hands, "Hi. I'm Astrid," she said, "is there something we can help you with…?"

"Oh. Yes. You're that singer from the Domino Club, right?"

"Yes. Walter's my pianist."

"I saw your picture in the paper," Olivia nodded, "I didn't know that you two were…" she glanced back and fourth between them, silently expectant.

"Oh- no, Walter and I aren't… together. He stays here," Astrid explained.

"I have a _voice box, _last time I checked," Walter grumbled.

"Won't you come in?" Astrid offered.

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

So, here she was. She had to admit that this was the first time she had been in a perp's home with their welcome, and she did not know if she liked it or not. She knew that Walter had seen her, at the club, and by the glances he threw at her when she wasn't looking, he seemed to share her wary mindset.

"I'm a private investigator from New York," Olivia was explaining as Astrid was setting out the makings for coffee, and Walter had pulled on an over shirt, rubbing at the faint stubble on his face, "I'm very sorry that it's so early, but I work nights, so it's easy for me to be up at this time…"

"A nocturnal circadian rhythm rather than the traditional diurnal, yes, yes," Walter yawned.

Olivia and Astrid both looked at him blankly.

"Go on," Walter said, cowed.

Time to flash her knowledge. "Dr. Bishop-"Olivia started.

"Whoa whoa whoa- _Doctor_?" Astrid laughed, glancing at Walter, who looked grave, "Listen, miss Dunham, I think you've got the wrong guy… Walter plays the piano, and before that he was in the war…" She looked to Walter again, who continued to be silent, "…Walter?"

Walter said nothing, fiddling with a frayed scratch on the couch upholstery.

Astrid looked as if she didn't know if she should feel impressed or betrayed. So whatever Walter Bishop had done in the past to warrant such attention, it was clear that he had not gotten around to telling anyone about it, including this woman he seemed to be so close with. Olivia waited for her turn to speak, and continued.

"Dr. Bishop, do you know about a man by the name of William Bell?"

A blink, an inhale, and the perfect tone of casual indifference, "No." Was what Philip told her true? Because Walter's bluff was flawless. She almost believed it herself.

Unlucky bastard indeed.

Olivia figured that she would have to go at this a different way, "Well, it appears that he seems to know you, Dr. Bishop. I was sent to find you."

"Why?" Walter questioned suspiciously.

Honesty may not have been her best policy, but it was the only one she had, right now. "I don't know. I was only sent here to find you, and bring you back to New York so you could meet with William Bell."

A small smile touched the side of Walter's mouth, and he chuckled, "And why on earth would I want to do something like that?" Walter sat back on the couch, sipping his coffee audibly through his front teeth to cement his point, "Going off with a strange woman to the beckon of some gent I've never met? Highly suspect, miss Dunham."

"I've shown you my credentials, Dr. Bishop," Olivia said calmly, suddenly missing her old ways of slamming transgressors onto car hoods and slapping them into cuffs. Charlie had always been the 'good cop', "I'm afraid that you don't have much of a choice, in the matter."

"I respectfully disagree," Walter replied, setting his empty cup onto the coffee table between them, "I have a right to know just what exactly warrants such attention to my person."

Damn. But she was certain that there had to be something she could use, to persuade him, and all at once, it clicked. Unlucky bastard, "Would you like to make a bet, Dr. Bishop?"

Walter glanced up at her, his eyes sharp with doubt, but bright with interest, "I beg your pardon?"

"A bet," Olivia continued calmly, casually sliding back in her seat and tugging her skirt back down her thigh, "The wager is _you_. If I win, you come back with me to face the music-" she glanced up at Astrid, who watched Walter's growing interest with concern, "-so to speak."

"And if I win?" Walter questioned. His eyes did not leave her face- both wore perfectly unreadable masks.

"What do you want?"

"I want a lot of things, miss Dunham. My finger, for one," he joked, holding up his gapped hand, "But I think what I would like from you is to be forgotten. If I win, you forget that I exist. For the record, Dr. Bishop is _dead_."

"I can do that," Olivia replied cooly.

"Walter," Astrid said uncertainly, speaking up at last as she touched his arm, "Don't do this, it's too sketchy. You're horrible with gambling, please don't do this…"

"I told you that I won, yesterday. I can win now."

"Look- I don't care what happened in the past, Walter, I really don't, but please, don't do this," her fingers gathered the fabric of his shirt, "please don't leave me."

Walter did not once look away from Olivia's face, and she knew she had him, "What's your game?" he questioned.

xXx

So this was all it came down to? A simple flutter? Too easy.

Astrid left the room. Walter was slightly glad- a girl at tableside was bad luck.

"Blackjack," Olivia answered simply, "twenty-one."

Walter hid his smile, "there's a deck there on the side table. You deal- and don't stack, I'll know."

Olivia shook her head, "One deck won't do," she answered, "counting a single deck is too easy. Four decks, at the least."

He didn't bother to tell her that he could count five, and only shrugged, standing to move to the nearby cabinetry and pull open a drawer, plucking out a few fresh decks and tossing them onto the table for her inspection. He didn't bother to watch as she shuffled and dealt, casually pouring himself another cup of coffee, "how many rounds?" he questioned into his drink.

"We're both busy people, Dr. Bishop. A single round."

He raised his eyebrows, stirring another spoonful of sugar into his already overly sweet coffee, "Would you like to wager some money?"

"You're gambling with enough already," Olivia answered with a smile. She dealt out two cards from the top of the deck. He immediately gained a face-up seven, and she an ace.

Walter looked at the back designs of his bottom card for a few moments, "have you ever gambled before, miss Dunham?" he questioned.

"I'm afraid I haven't. Beginner's luck?"

Walter smiled, and peeked under the corner of his bottom card- another seven. The odds were high that she had a face card. He watched her carefully as she had a look, her face flawlessly unchanging. Walter quietly tapped the table.

Another card flashed out- seven. Twenty-one. Walter looked up at Olivia, showing his match of numbers, and she hit her own sum of fourteen again, throwing an eight. Twenty-two.

"I would say that I'm sorry, miss Dunham, but I do feel as if you're getting the better end of the bet," Walter said calmly, gathering the cards back together, and straitening them into a pile on the tabletop, "whoever hired you to find me did not have your best interests at heart, I can assure you."

Olivia let out a small sigh of defeat, straitening her skirt, "Well, a bet is a bet, Dr. Bishop. I'm only glad I didn't put any money on it," she joked. She stood, and he stood with her, shaking her hand, "good game, Dr. Bishop I guess this is goodbye."

"It is. It was nice to meet you, miss Dunham." Walter could appreciate a good loser, as he himself was a poor one.

"Likewise. I'll see myself out." Olivia departed, and it was only after he heard the soft click of the door shutting that he let a grin spread across his face, and he fairly sprinted for the kitchen, where he knew Astrid was staying.

"I did it!" he exclaimed excitedly, "See?! I won! I told you that I-" he paused, and she continued to glare into the sink, "what?"

"Nothing."

Walter watched her for a few moments, and let out a sigh, hanging his head as he raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck, "…sorry?" he offered at last.

Astrid turned her glare on him, and he swallowed, "No, you aren't," she said lowly, "you're never sorry about anything, Walter."

"That's not true," Walter said. If there was one thing he had in his life more than failure, it was regret.

"I don't know what it is with you, Walter. You know, for the longest time, I didn't care about what brought you back to me- I didn't want to know, really. But- all of this, Walter? I don't know if what I know about you is even the truth. First September tells me you have a _son, _then some strange woman shows up with a warrant for your arrest and you're suddenly _doctor_ Bishop?"

Walter shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor as he pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks guiltily.

"Who _are_ you, Walter?" Astrid asked, searching his face. When Walter did not reply, she passed him and went back up the stairs, and he could hear her shutting the bedroom door behind herself.

"Someone you'd be better off without," he confessed to the emptiness of the kitchen.

xXx


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven.

Captain Lows?

Well, despite the sea-themed decorum, it had a certain charm. And 'Mark' was right- the beer was cold, and tasted far better than the dust.

"You look like you just got off the road," the bartender said, rubbing a smudge from the lip of a scotch glass with a towel, "Long trip? I guess you could use a little sleep, by the looks of you."

"Yeah, well," Peter muttered into his beer, "Try finding your way in this town in the middle of the night."

"No complaints, here," The bartender grinned, stowing the glass under the counter, "who needs a hotel?"

Peter spared her a small bark of a laugh, "I'd hate to get to know the kind of person that frequents, at this hour of night."

"_Morning_," the bartender corrected, and moved to refill a drink as she was summoned.

Peter listened to the grainy rasp of the jazz record playing faintly, and was reminded, with a slightly homesick twinge of pain, of the quiet peace of the diner, and the gentle chatter of patrons. What was he even doing here, anyways?

"Hey," he said, drawing the attention of the bartender, "'You know about a place called Domino?"

"Jazz club? Yeah. Cute little place, charming. A guy named Amos owns it, and he's been trying his best to keep it from going under. Their show isn't bad, either- they were in the paper, not too long ago-" Peter waved her silent, and she chuckled, returning to the taps, "jazz just isn't _it_, anymore. It's a shame."

Peter took another drink of his beer, "'Anybody know how to get there?" he questioned to the scattering of gents at the bar he knew had been listening.

"Who wants to know?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder, and his brows shot up in surprise, "Oh."

Olivia smiled at him as she slid onto a seat beside him, selecting a coaster before setting her glass of scotch before herself, "I had no idea you were a jazz enthusiast, Mr. Peter."

"I'm not," he said, "But apparently, you are." He drew out the article she had left behind from his back pocket, doffing it onto the counter.

She smiled slightly, touching the page with her fingertips. "Not particularly," she replied. She looked up at him, a certain cruelty he had not expected in her eyes, "And just what brings you out from behind the counter, then?"

"What are you after?" Peter questioned.

"Right now? A refill," Olivia said to the bartender, who obliged, "I've had a little bit of bad luck here recently, and I'm looking to change it. But maybe I have, running into you," Olivia glanced at Peter over the top of her glass as she took a drink, "maybe I can figure out why you look so damn familiar."

"What do you want with Walter Bishop?" Peter clarified.

Olivia laughed, and he did not like the sound of it, "Walter Bishop," she repeated, then added, "_Doctor_ Walter Bishop. He's dead." she took another drink.

"Dead?" Peter questioned, stunned.

"Yep. Probably killed by one of the thugs he owed money to."

Peter could not help but let his beer fall the rest of the way to the counter with a _thunk_, "How do you know?" he asked.

Olivia raised a brow, "What's it to you?"

"Nothing," Peter replied, "it's only that he seemed important, if you came down from New York to find him."

"Who said I was from New York?"

Peter smirked, "Lucky guess."

Olivia smiled back, just as darkly, "I'm sure. Well, the truth is, our disappearing-reappearing doctor Bishop here had an old friend looking for him, and I was sent to find him."

"Which friend?"

"Just a friend. I don't think it matters much, now." Olivia set down her glass to watch him, her brows furrowing as if he were a difficult piece of art to distinguish and understand, "You're more and more of an enigma, Mr. Peter. You're here by sheer coincidence, is that what I'm supposed to believe?"

"Believe what you want. It doesn't change anything," Peter received an new long-neck, rubbing the mouth with his sleeve for a few moments before raising it to his lips for a drink.

Olivia considered for a few moments, "I guess you're right."

They were silent for a few moments, ""If you really want to know," Olivia said lowly, "I only know Walter Bishop is dead because I asked him."

"Then he's not dead?" Peter questioned. He did not know what he felt, about her answer.

"More or less. If you can call watching your back at every move living. But, I suppose that I'm not one to talk," Olivia got to her feet, smoothing down the flawless lines of her dress and tucking the newspaper article under her elbow, "It was nice running into you, Peter. I'll be passing back through Donniston, but I don't think you'll be around to serve me any tea."

"Stop by anyway?" Peter asked.

She smiled, "Of course. Good night."

"Good night, Miss Olivia," he replied. It felt strange to say her name, now that he did. He tried not to stare too much as she left.

And what would he do, now? He'd come here, met up with Olivia, and what? He still didn't know the connection she had, with his father. If she had been looking for him, why was she leaving him? And who had sent her? The fact that she had called him and enigma had been simple irony.

Peter did not have much longer to ponder his queries when gunshots interrupted the monotonous tones of the bar, and he looked up sharply. Peter got to his feet and raced outside, toward the sounds.

He was the first to stumble onto the dim, nearly vacant parking lot, and the first to see a man sprawled out at Olivia's feet amongst the blood and shell casings. He looked to Olivia as she stared down at the fallen man in horror, "Philip…?"

xXx

She thought that she would have been too angry to sleep, but when Astrid awoke a few hours later to the brightness of the morning sunshine through her bedroom window, she found it hard to believe that it had only been earlier that she had met Olivia, and apparently Walter, for the first time…

She took a bath to work off the chills and the quiet. She dressed in silence, and was downstairs making breakfast when Walter seemed to appear behind her, wrapping her into a hug. "I thought you'd left-" Astrid started.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Astrid sighed, and was silent for a few moments, "It's alright, Walter," she said at last, "I mean, I don't really understand, but…"

"You mean a great deal, to me," he said, softer still, "I don't know where… _what_…" he sighed, and kissed her slightly damp hair. "You know that, don't you?"

Astrid chuckled softly, patting his arm, "Whatever that means, Walter, I guess I understand." He smiled, and released her, and she returned to her task at the stove, "How do you want your pancakes? I've got boysenberry syrup, I know it's your favorite."

"I'm afraid I don't have time, today," Walter said, grabbing up his coat off the back of a chair, "there are things I have to take care of. I should be back by lunch."

"Okay. Stay out of trouble."

"I'll try. Ciao, bluebird," Walter kissed her on the cheek, settling his fedora on his head and fleeing the house via the kitchen door.

"And don't gamble!" Astrid added, to which he did not reply. Astrid chuckled and shook her head, beginning to cut potatoes into the frying pan. For what Walter appeared to lack in common sense, he more than made up for in charm. Astrid wonder if, perhaps, his luck really _had_ changed.

Not that she believed in luck, anyways.

Astrid was pushing a fluffy, golden pancake onto a plate when there was a rapping at the front door. "Coming!" she called, shutting off the stove and doffing her apron onto a peg in the pantry. She glanced at the shotgun, leaning against the cobwebs in a dark corner, and she shook her head, leaving it be as she made her way to the front door.

She retracted the bolt and removed the chain as she twisted the knob, pulling the door open, "Hello…?"

A man stood in her doorway, and he pulled his cap from his head, holding in his hands politely, "Good morning, ma'am. I'm looking for Dr. Walter Bishop."

Astrid hesitated for a moment, taken aback at the stranger's rugged good looks, his careless stubble reminding her of something she could not quite remember. But she had a strange suspicion that she had seen him somewhere else, "No, I'm sorry, you just missed him. He ran out for a few errands."

The man shifted uncomfortably, "Oh. Well, do you know when he might be back?"

Astrid laughed quietly, "With Walter, there's no telling. Would you like to leave him a message?"

He sighed, scratching the back of his neck, "No, thank you, ma'am. I'm sorry to have trouble you." he turned away, starting back toward his parked car.

"Wait," Astrid said, stilling him. She laughed uneasily as he looked back at her, "I'm sorry, but… have we ever met?"

"No, ma'am. I'd remember."

"You look very familiar."

"I've just got one of those faces-"

"No- I know I've seen you before. What's you're name?" Astrid questioned.

The stranger looked uncomfortable, "Look, it doesn't matter- in fact, please don't even mention that I stopped by-"

And all at once, his face fell into place- she _had _seen him before, "You're Peter," Astrid exclaimed, "Peter Bishop."

"Look, everyone says I look like someone-" he stammered.

"No- Walter keeps a picture of you, in his wallet. It's a baseball card…" Astrid chuckled in exasperation, "Jesus, he really does have a son…"

Peter's face suddenly soured, "No, he doesn't," he said stiffly, and turned away again, pulling his cap onto his head. Astrid raced down the steps to touch his shoulder, stopping him.

"Peter, please," she said quickly, "please, come inside."

xXx


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight.

"He'll be alright, then?" Olivia questioned, trying not to muss her makeup as she rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes. She had not slept the entire night, in the emergency ward waiting room, and her face was washed and lean with worry.

"Yes. His wounds were sever- several gunshots to the back and legs- but he should make a recovery, given enough time. We've put him under, for now, and I think it would be best if he rested up."

"Thank you, doctor," Olivia sighed, "That's good to know."

The doctor nodded, his white coat flaring slightly as he turned away. Olivia retreated to the solace of the phone booth in the lobby, shutting the folding door as she had a seat, lifting the receiver, "Operator, please connect me to the Peet building, south New Jersey. The office of Charles Francis, please. Thank you." Olivia inserted her coins, and listened to the click of the connection, and the dull hum of a waiting tone.

There was another click, "Charlie Francis."

"Charlie, it's Olivia again. The doc says Philip will be alright."

"Thank god."

"I think it was a hit, Charlie."

"It's possible, Liv. Bell was whacked this afternoon."

"What?!" Olivia exclaimed, "How? What happened?"

"I don't know. But our connection seems to have vanished from the face of the earth, as well."

"Nina Sharp?"

"Yeah," Olivia could hear a shifting on the other end of the line, probably Charlie having a seat at his overcrowded desk, "what about Bishop? What did you find? Do you think he's got anything to do with this?"

"I don't think so. He's-" Olivia hesitated, and sighed shortly, "He's dead, Charlie."

"How? Did someone whack him before Bell?" Charlie questioned.

Olivia froze. If Bell was dead, and Sharp, and someone had tried to kill Philip… would they go after Bishop, next? And if they got Bishop… would she be next?

But Bishop was the only tie between them…

"Liv?" Charlie questioned, "Ya still with me?"

"Yes- Yeah, Charlie. listen- there's something I've got to look into. I'll call you back, if anything comes up, okay?"

"I should be in Atlantic in a few days- keep in contact. Olivia," he said, stopping her as she moved to hang up the receiver, "Be careful, okay, kid? I don't know what's going on, but if it gets you hurt-"

"I'll be careful, Charlie. Thanks," Olivia smiled, and hung up the phone. She pushed her way out of the booth and stood in the lobby for a few moments, mulling her thoughts. She had to find Bishop- it was obvious that she was not the only one looking for him. She just hoped she could get to him before they did.

xXx

The bright lights and glitter of the casinos had always induced excitement, in him. They seemed to add to the prospect of a 'big win', even as it appeared that he had never had a 'big win' in his entire life. One couldn't expect something like that from a man that had been born on a little southern plantation just outside of Baton Rouge… Such luck just wasn't in his stars.

Until now.

"I call your bluff, Bishop," the dealer said smugly, "I've never lost to you before, and I don't think I will, now."

"Someday you'll learn the difference between a poker face and a sure win, boy," Walter smiled in return, flicking his full-red straight onto the plush velvet of the tabletop, "But until then, believe yourself a better man, now that I've taught you."

The dealer bit the inside of his cheek, red dashing the skin of his face above his mustache, "A win, to the gentleman in grey," he said, a bit stiffly, "congratulations, sir."

"And congratulations to you as well, young man," Walter chirruped happily, rising from the table and settling his fedora onto his head.

"You won't stay for another hand?" the dealer questioned, hoping to regain the money he had just lost.

"Alas, no. Wouldn't you know it, I'm bored? But don't take it as a total loss, son," Walter tucked a hundred dollar chip into the dealer's vest, patting him on the shoulder, "There's a lot of this place I have yet to see, now that I'm on the good side of our lady."

"Be careful, Bishop," the dealer growled as Walter sauntered away.

There were some people he had to talk to, some matters he had to clear up, before he got the hell out of Dodge. It should all be something of a synch, now that things were going his way… but all of this could wait, as he spotted the buffet and thought of a caramel apple sundae.

Walter's thoughts returned to the events of early that morning, and he frowned into his ice cream. "Belly, huh?" he muttered to himself, poking at his melting dessert with his spoon "what could he want, then…?"

Walter exclaimed as his spoon was suddenly pulled from his hand, and he looked up in confusion. He swallowed, still gathering an uneasy chill and a grin as he spotted company, "Oh- um, hello, Jones."

"Bishop," David Robert Jones responded cheerfully, "How are you, on this fine morning? In the sweets early, I see." He slipped into the bench seat opposite Walter, smiling as he held up his apprehended spoon, "It's bad for you."

"um-hmm," Walter mumbled, looking down into his unfinished sundae.

Jones slipped the spoon into the breast pocket of his own black, double-breasted jacket, "But I'm happy to see you enjoying the hospitality of my casino, in any case. I haven't seen you around, lately."

"Well, I've been busy…" Walter started, spreading his hands.

"A few of my floor dealers have informed me that you've been showing them up a bit," Jones continued, ignoring his comment, "Giving them something of a run for their money, they say."

"Well, not too terribly much," Walter replied.

"The only reason I'm not throwing you out at this moment is because I want to know how you're doing it, Walter," Jones said seriously, "A man like you, your losing is _legendary. _You're obviously cheating, Walter."

Walter suddenly frowned, and leaned forward, plucking his spoon out of Jones' pocket, "I most certainly am not."

Jones raised a brow, "Oh?"

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I'm just feeling lucky today, Jones?"

Jones openly laughed, "For you, my friend, there is no such thing as luck. Or voodoo, or whatever you call it, in your ridiculous southern suspicion."

"It's _hoodoo_," Walter snapped, agitated, "and I don't care what you believe, Jones. Every dog has their day."

"You should get around to caring what I believe right quick," Jones replied sharply, "because if I catch you cheating in this casino or any of my others, I can promise that you'll never roll in Atlantic again."

Walter took a large bite of ice cream, "Every gambler cheats, Jones. Mostly, we cheat ourselves, I think. But there's no telling, when that cheating turns to genuine luck. And don't you think that I'd have cheated sooner?"

Jones eyed him for a few moments in silent suspicion, "What are you getting at, Bishop?" he questioned.

"I'm just clearing up a bit of my affairs, David. Wrapping up a few loose ends. It's nothing against you."

"Then don't do it in my casino," Jones snapped, rising. He took Walter's spoon again as he passed, returning to the floor.

xXx


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine.

"Pancakes?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The woman chuckled as Peter looked around the small, bright kitchen, his hat in his hands politely as he fought back his nervousness, "What is it?" he questioned.

"Nothing. Walter… he said almost the same thing, this morning. Come on in to the sitting room, I'll make us some coffee."

"You're the singer at the club. Astrid Farnsworth," Peter said, following her, "I saw your picture in the paper."

She laughed slightly, "Yeah. 'Been to the show?"

"No, sorry," Peter replied, taking the seat on the couch that she had offered, "but… I read the review. It sounds nice." Astrid only nodded, returning to the kitchen to put on some water to heat. Peter took the opportunity to survey his surroundings- first, the slightly scattered deck of playing cards on the coffee table, then the dog-eared fashion magazines and old newspapers stacked in the paper tray, and at last the pictures on the mantle over the empty fireplace, depicting black-and-white photographs of people he had never met.

"I don't have any pictures of him," Astrid said, disrupting his thoughts. She took a seat in the armchair, "he doesn't like pictures. He says that if 'they' find pictures of him here, I could get into trouble…" she sighed, "I used to think he was just crazy, but…"

"He was always crazy," Peter said quietly. He scratched his ear, grumbling to himself, "What am I even _doing _here…?"

"I don't know," Astrid replied for him, "all I do know is that some crazy things have been going on, and nothing fits together. I don't know who Walter is, anymore-"

"And what? You think that I do? Sorry, sweetheart- he's a bastard all around," Peter replied, "You're not the first person to discover his other side, you know."

"Then why are you here?" Astrid snapped, "If you didn't think he was different, why did you come looking for him?""

"I didn't," Peter replied sharply, "I don't care if I ever see him again. All I know is that someone got hurt, and he might be to blame. I'm doing it for a friend, so don't think that this is some attempt at bridging my estrangement."

"Someone got hurt? How?" Astrid questioned.

"I don't know. There was a shooting at a bar early this morning-"

"A woman came over this morning to talk to Walter," Astrid said, "she said she was a private investigator, that her name was Olivia Dunham."

Peter nodded, "Yes. I heard, from her, actually. It was her source man that got shot, when he was posing as her driver."

"So you think that someone was after her?" Astrid questioned, raising a brow, "No- she said she would leave Walter alone, and he's not the type of person… he wouldn't do something like that…"

"Do you know where he was, after Dunham left?" Peter questioned.

"Yes, he was…" Astrid paused, and Peter leaned forward, "I mean, no… I was really angry at him, and I went back to bed. But I'm sure he wouldn't… I might not know all that there is to know about Walter, but he wouldn't do it."

Peter nodded. Perfect. Another innocent that had fallen to the folly of thinking she could trust his father. Apparently history was very apt to repeating itself, "Thank you, Miss Farnsworth. I think that I should be going-"

"What if someone is after Walter, then?" Astrid questioned, "That Dunham woman was the first to come looking for him, but what if she isn't the last?"

"Then we have a serious problem," Peter answered, "because if it was this easy for me to find you while searching for him, it'll be just as easy for someone else. Where did Walter say he was going?"

Astrid shook her head, "I don't know. He just said that he was out running some errands, he never tells me exactly-"

"He's playing poker," Peter said immediately. He added, at Astrid's confused stare, "It's a code he used to use. Errands are for poker, a flat tire is the track, things like that. He taught me, so my mother wouldn't know." Peter was pulling his jacket back onto his shoulders when Astrid stopped him.

"Take me with you."

Peter snorted, "Listen, doll face, I know you're scared, but-"

"I'm not scared. I grew up in Atlantic- no one knows this town better than I do. If you're looking for Walter, you're going to need me, to find him," Astrid replied flatly, "So am I going with you, or going by myself?"

Peter blinked in shock as she pushed past him on her way to the coat rack, "Okay."

xXx

It was a damn shame, wasting her good pancakes. But what could she do? It appeared that neither of the Bishop men felt that breakfast was a necessary meal.

The resemblances between the two of them seemed non-existent, at first- it was only after a while of watching Peter that Astrid would spot a familiar… _something_… that she knew belonged to Walter. A feeling, something she couldn't quite place.

"So, what happened to you?" Astrid questioned, as she frowned at the dust getting on her hose, "Walter has a baseball card of you. Do you still play?"

Peter glanced away from the road at her, "You don't know baseball?" he questioned.

"It was never really my thing," Astrid admitted.

Peter chuckled, shaking his head, "I like you better already. No, I don't play anymore. Sort of… fell out of it, I guess."

"How can you fall out of something like that? I thought it was, like… being famous, or something."

"Or something," Peter agreed. He slowed to a stop at an intersection, "let's just say… that card Walter's got is worth a bit. But it's not what everyone thinks it is. I think that if you do something you're good at… you should do it because you enjoy it. When you stop appreciating your life for what you're good at…" he shook his head.

"So what do you do, now?"

"I'm a busboy. And not a bad mechanic, either." He seemed proud of his profession. This small amusement at the unusual whispered to her about Walter.

Astrid chuckled, "Doesn't sound like the best trade, to me."

"What about you? You said you've lived here your entire life. Isn't it a little flashy, a little too loud? Don't you want to get out of here?"

Astrid paused, considering, "Well… I guess I've never seen the side of Atlantic that everyone else has. Everyone else comes here, and they see what you said- a big, flashy city filled with lights and winners. But I've always seen what's behind the backdrop, seen how everything gets old and tired, after too long. That the winners might leave, but the losers settle to the bottom, and have to make due with nothing."

"What keeps you here?" Peter questioned.

Astrid only remembered the words her father had told her, as early as she could remember, "This place is magic."

Peter raised his brow in question.

"It transforms people. When the lights are down, things can seem so shabby, but when they come on… everything is covered with sequins, to cover the tatters. It's the best kind of illusion you can imagine, and it never ceases to amaze me."

"What about Walter?" Peter questioned.

"I used to think that the lights showed me who he really was. I didn't know that he was the best illusion of all." She sighed, looking out at the passing shop fronts, "But I'll shake the cards from his sleeves."

xXx


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten.

It is hard to imagine a feeling better than that of winning. Everything seemed brighter, more welcoming, less dangerous. Winning was a booze that made the more foolish of man a careless one… or a dead one, if his carelessness got the better of him.

Walter hoped that he didn't seem like too much of a fool, as he sauntered around, punch-drunk on his recent winnings. The thought of cash in his pocket nearly upset the nagging reminder that he would more than likely never see this place again.

If he was lucky.

Which was unlikely.

Walter wondered where he could get a decent car, but he was dragging his feet about it- he knew the reaction Astrid would have, when he showed up and told her what needed to be done, and it wouldn't be pretty. He entertained the brief notion of booking a flight, and immediately dismissed it- he'd spent enough time jumping out of planes that he was certain he would never be able to ride in them properly ever again. No, no- a car would do just fine. Perhaps a ford; they were good, when it came to stopping bullets. And grey… yes, grey, it would match his hat…

"Dr. Bishop."

He nearly walked on, along the boardwalk, nearly ignored it. He hadn't been addressed by his proper title in a good, long while. But something in the tone, something dangerous, stopped him. And it was a good thing that he had learned long ago to follow his baser instincts.

The repeat was not needed, but was added anyway, even as he was turning, "Dr. Bishop," and he knew it was her.

What he hadn't counted on was the gun in his side, and he exclaimed sharply as the glossy, black barrel of a Thompson jammed his kidney. He replied casually, even as his skin crawled, "Hello, miss Dunham."

"Into the alley. Go."

"You're a classy gal, I've always said that about you," Walter murmured, but he did as he was instructed. He grunted sharply as she gripped his collar, shoving him back against the wall of the building.

"Just what the hell are you involved in, Bishop?" she demanded lowly, pressing the gun into his stomach.

"Well, I was part of the keno club for a bit, but then it became more of a bingo club, and I hate bingo-"

"My friend is laying in a hospital with six bullets in him, _doctor_. I need answers, and I need them now," Olivia growled, her finger tightening on the trigger.

"If you're asking if I have enemies, Miss Dunham, the answer is yes," Walter said, "But shooting me won't help you or your friend."

xXx

"It appears to me that you don't have a lot of people that are very fond of you, Dr. Bishop," Olivia continued.

He continued to watch her.

"If I go back to New York without you, it will only be a matter of time before someone else comes looking for you."

"And what are you suggesting?" Walter snapped, "I've been dead for years, Miss Dunham- I can die again."

"And more people that I care about could, if I don't collar you," Olivia replied darkly, "This isn't a choice, doctor. You're coming with me back to New York--" She was interrupted as Walter shushed her, pushing the gun down into her coat as obscuring it as he stood in front of her.

"Bishop, fancy running into you, here," A massive man seemed entirely too big for the narrow alley that had been containing their conversation impeded them, smiling widely with distressingly gaped teeth, "and hello- you've got a new dame, is that it?"

"Davy," Walter said evenly, "Always a pleasure."

"I can't say I blame you. That singer was cute, but I've never been one for the darkies. Unnatural, if you ask me."

Olivia only briefly registered the red creeping up the back of Walter's neck, and the sudden heat that radiated from him, "What do you want?"

"The same thing I always want- what you owe me," Davy replied, and the figures of several lesser men were eventually visible past his bulk, "word has it you've made some winnings. I only want what's mine."

"Fine." Walter delved into his pocket, pulling out his billfold. He tossed it against Davy's chest, "It's all there. I don't want trouble, Davy."

Davy's gapped smile grew as he counted through the bills, "Very nice. A first, if you ask me. But if you're winning, Bishop… I think I might have to charge interest."

"You work for Champ- he won't like you stepping in on your own much longer, Davy."

"Aren't you the yappy bastard, preaching morals? Shut your mouth, three-fingers."

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, "I've paid you, Davy. It's the end of our dealings."

"Whoa, whoa- don't be so hasty. I know you too well for that, Bishop. I'll tell you what," Davy slipped the money into his pocket, shrugging his massive shoulders, "since you ain't using the darkie anymore, howsabout giving me the sweet, then?"

Olivia exclaimed as Walter ripped the Thompson from her hands, setting it to his hip and jamming back the trigger. The explosive chatter of automatic fire roared in the alley as Davy crumbled to the pavement, "How's _that_ for three-fingers, you gorilla prick?!" Walter spat angrily. "Drop the pieces!" He shouted as the other strangers jumped for their pistols, "Drop 'em, or taste the chopper!"

Hesitantly, pistols clattered on the floorboards at his feet, and he narrowed the Thompson on each of them in turn, "We're all reasonable here, gentleman. And I have only one request, for you to take back to Champ, or any of the others that inquire- _don't come looking for me_. And if anyone _ever _touches the dame- this one, or the singer- I'll kill 'em." He barred his teeth, "_Savvy_?!"

There was the distant wail of sirens, and Olivia seized Walter's arm, dragging his off down the alley, "C'mon!" She said hastily as the thugs were scrambling for their guns, "we'll take my car!"

A shot sounded, and Walter gave a cry as his hat tipped forward, a bullet whizzing past his head. Olivia shoved him into the off driver's seat as she bolted around the hood, grinding the car to life and screeching the tires as they sped onto the street.

Walter was shaking his head as he covered his eyes with his hand, the Thompson in his lap, "Ooh… I shouldn't have done that."

xXx


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven.

"We used to have a dog. Well, he was really more of my dog, I grew up with the mangy bastard, his name was Rufus. I called him Roof, because that's what he did, somethin'. My father, he always told my mother that I needed a friend, but I honestly think it was to make up for the time we never spent together… we were never close.

"Well, we kept Roof until some time around my tenth birthday. That was right when the depression was starting to get really bad. Walter… he used to teach, did you know? Anyways. He'd already gambled away our savings, and he'd lost his job, on top of that. So things were getting thin, and I'd wake up nearly every morning to my mother crying in the kitchen, screaming at my father, and all he would do was stand there. I don't know why he would stand there.

"Roof was all I had.

"One night, Roof just disappeared. He went out for a walk with my father, and he just never came back. My father got home, put meat on the table… but he wouldn't eat anything. For days he wouldn't eat anything, my mother said it was so that we would have enough, the two of us.

"Then, Walter disappeared.

"I asked my mother a few times what happened to him, she could never give me a straight answer. After a few years had gone past, my mom started cashing government checks, she said that Walter joined the military. At first, I was happy- I sort of knew where he was, I'd send him letters every now and again. But I never got a reply. All we got was the check, regularly, supporting us, paying for my schooling… but Walter never came back."

"So then what?" Astrid questioned. They sat in waiting outside the back entrance of the Silver Sand Dollar, a casino Astrid knew Walter frequented, when he had the money. She'd already gone to the front to ask about him, before she realized that Walter almost always came out the back- either to avoid potential collectors or to be thrown into the street, scott broke.

Peter let out a breathy chuckle, pushing his cap up from his eyes, "That certainly is the question, isn't it?"

"Why are you here, if you hate him so much?"

Peter shook his head, "I can't say, actually. How'd he end up with you, then? You seem to have a level head on your shoulders, how'd you get saddled with the bastard?"

Astrid looked up at him with a sharp glare, "Then you don't know Walter at all, do you?"

Peter looked slightly taken aback, before his mouth twisted into a dark grin, "My mistake. I guess you really don't have a level head."

Astrid flushed hotly, "Think what you want. I'm not here to help you, I'm here to protect Walter."

"So what happened to getting to know him, then?"

"I think I'll ask Walter myself, thanks very much." Astrid replied, a bit stiffly.

Peter rolled his eyes, "Have it your way, then." And they continued to sit in silence.

"Walter knew my father," Astrid said at last, and Peter watched her, "I guess it must have been after he left you. He came into the club, back when it was still a big deal, and he was looking for some sort of work. We didn't have anything for him… until he offered to tune the piano for a sandwich. He stayed with us for a few days, then just disappeared again. It was the strangest thing- it didn't go out of tune for years, after that. And when it started to… he just showed up again."

"So you don't know him either?" Peter questioned.

Astrid laughed wryly, "No, I don't."

"Ah, the phantasms that are the travels of one Walter Bishop," Peter clucked his tongue, raising his arms to cross them behind his head and stretch.

"_Doctor_ Walter Bishop," Astrid corrected, but her comment sounded hollow rather than humorous.

Peter and Astrid sat up sharply as there was the distant, tinny crackle of weapons fire, "What was that?" Peter demanded.

"How should I know?" Astrid replied, "It's not our problem, I'm sure it's got nothing to do with…" Sirens began to wail, and a black-and-white police sedan screeched down the alley to pass them, in the direction of the shooting. Shortly following, there sounded small pops of gunfire, and the buzzing whistle of ricochet, "…us…"

"We should get out of here, shouldn't we?" Peter questioned nervously.

"That would probably be best, dear."

xXx

Astrid waited at the greenroom door, her eyes spanning the quiet rush of the crew and band members, preparing for the evening's show. She was certain that he anxiousness showed in her face, as she searched, listened for a familiar laugh, a familiar curse. A time or two she would stop someone in passing, to ask if they'd seen him. They had all only shaken their heads.

Maybe the shooting did have something to do with them, after all.

A familiar dread was seizing Astrid- a worry that she had long ago promised to herself would never hinder her. Walter was a careless man, one that lived on the very edge of a stupid, dangerous world that she never wanted to fully understand. She supposed that, more than anything, she wished he would never go back to it, that he would stay with her, where it was safe… but she knew that someday she would, as Peter had said, simply never see him again.

She had gotten Peter a booth to himself, in a darker portion of the club, where she had promised she would meet him after the show, or if something came up. As of now, she did not know which actions to take… should she do the show alone, or consult with Peter to go out looking for Walter, in case something had happened?

Her head twisted sharply as there drifted in the familiar sound of piano keys, and she bolted from the green room in search of the sound, pushing past the unheeding toward the creaky stage steps, squinting her eyes in the dim as she called quietly, "Walter?"

The keys stumbled and fell silent as he looked up, "Yes?"

Astrid drew herself up in anger, her face hot, "You idiot! You had me worried! I couldn't find you all day, and the radio said there was a shooting, out near the Sand Dollar!"

"Ah- yes. That." Walter breezed her off, continuing with his lighthearted rendition of Mozart's _Adagio_.

"That could have been you, Walter!" Astrid cried in exasperation.

Walter shrugged a shoulder, his eyes intent of the keys.

"Can't it just stop, Walter?" Astrid said, her tone exhausted, "Can't all of it just stop? Or at least go back to the way it was? I don't know what's going on, you won't tell me anything, and Peter-"

The key's clanged as Walter glanced up at her sharply, "Peter?"

"Yes, Walter. Peter. Your son. He was at the house, today- we went looking for you, something happened to that woman that came to see you. What in the world is going on?"

Walter studied his hands for a few moments, chewing the inside of his cheek in deep though. Astrid was about to leave him to his silence when he stood, stepping out from behind the bench and approaching her, "Come away with me," he said.

"What?"

"Come away with me, dove. Tonight. Now. We could stop by the house, get a few things, and get away from here. Whadda ya say?" He spread his arms with a smile that she knew was hiding fear.

"Walter, what are you talking about? What is going on?" Astrid questioned, stepping back.

"Nothing, bird. Nothing at all. Let's just go- I've got a car, you'll love it, it's grey with leather interior-"

"A car? How? No, never mind, I don't care how. Walter, we can't just go-"

"But we can!" he insisted brightly, "We could be in Florida by tomorrow night, then we could go anywhere you want. But we have to go tonight."

"No- Walter, stop acting so strange. What's got you so scared?"

Walter's smile faltered slightly, as he lowered his arms, "I'm not scared."

"Is it Peter? Who is William Bell?"

"Don't ask questions. The answers don't matter, we-"

"_No_, Walter," Astrid said firmly, "The answers _do_ matter, now. Tell me what's going on, I can help you."

"I can't-"

"Then I can't go with you," Astrid replied sadly.

Walter blinked in shock for a few moments, before he glanced around nervously, "Please, cher, you just have to trust me, this time. Right now- things are very dangerous, and I don't want you to be involved in any of it. We have to get out of here, for your own safety-"

"And I suppose it has nothing to do with the fact that that Dunham woman's partner was gunned down? No, Walter. I know where I am, and I can help myself." She turned away from him, starting for the stairs.

His arm suddenly snaked around her from behind, and he pressed his hand over her mouth. Astrid was frozen in shock for a few seconds, before she felt the burning pressure of a needle being inserted into her neck, and she began to struggle, "I'm sorry," Walter whispered into her ear, "I'm so sorry, love."

Her limbs began to feel stiff and heavy, the world around her growing fuzzy, and slowly fading. Her last sensations were those of slumping back, into his arms.

xXx


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve.

"I'm headed back up to New York, Charlie."

"What? No, Liv- you've got to stay with Philip, he's in a bad way-"

"Charlie, We'll all be in a bad way, if I don't find out what's going on," Olivia moved aside the curtains of the phone booth to glance out warily, "I don't know how deep this thing goes. You said Bell is dead, and Sharp has gone into hiding- getting Bishop isn't worth it, anymore."

"Bishop," Charlie growled, "do you think he's the one behind all of this?"

"No. I don't know."

"Who would want to keep some dead old gambler so hidden?" Charlie questioned.

Olivia paused. That was right- Charlie didn't know. And it would probably be safer, if he didn't, "I don't know, Charlie. But I'm going to find out- if Philip being attacked and Bell's death are connected, then they've just got to take out the ones in the middle-"

"Us and Sharp," Charlie completed. He sighed into the phone, "Okay, kid. Be safe, alright?"

"You be safe too, Charlie. See you."

"See you." And the receiver went dead. Olivia sat in the silence of the booth for a bit, until the operator flatly questioned if she needed another connection. Olivia hung up the phone without answering.

She looked out of the booth again cautiously before venturing out, into the diner. "Bad news?" questioned the man behind the counter, and Olivia shook her head. She thanked him and left.

Her slow paces on the empty sidewalk were not in time with her racing thoughts. She and Bishop had parted that afternoon, and she could still remember their conversation. "I'm poison, Miss Dunham," he had said, "It's probably best if you just forget me entirely."

And, from what she had observed so far, he had been correct. Things were getting more and more dangerous, the more time she spent with Bishop, and still there were no answers. She was certain that the murders were not of his construction- he had no way to know that Bell had sent her after him, and after the way she had seen him deal with his 'problems' that afternoon, she was fairly certain that he did not have the respect of certain underground members to request a hit from them… he simply did not have the facilities to commit such atrocities. Olivia had seen men of his kind countless times, in her profession.

Olivia stopped, in her strolling. Even in the lights of the casinos on the main drag, it was unsafe for her to be out by herself. She wanted to refrain from using her sidearm, if she could; best not to draw attention to herself, if at all possible. She glanced down the dim street, and at last approached a taxi, the driver seated on the hood, smoking a cigarette. He looked up as she approached, and quickly snuffed it out on the heel of his shoe.

"Excuse me," Olivia questioned, "You are still available, aren't you?"

"In every way," The driver replied, then shook his head, "Where can I give you a lift to, ma'am?"

Olivia paused. Not back to her hotel room, she'd already checked out… and going to the hospital to see Philip would almost certainly change her mind… "The Domino Club?" She questioned.

"Right away, Ma'am." He slid off the hood and opened the door for her, then scrambled back around the cab to climb into the driver's seat.

Olivia watched the brightly lit Casino fronts as they passed outside the window. Too much of her puzzle was infuriatingly unclear.

She reached the Club and was seated by a different waiter than her first out, and as she sat watching the other patrons of the nearly vacant place, she unconsciously began to register the details in her mind, filing them away as she always did; a man in an emerald-colored suit speaking to a waiter in hushed, angry tones; the clock showed that the show was late to start yet again; a woman had had spilled red wine onto her gown and was fretting about it; the Sax player had a stray curl escaping his otherwise well-groomed beard; and a man, strangely familiar in his dark suit and tie, was removing his fedora from his bald head as he crept like a shadow toward the greenroom door.

"Hey."

Olivia jumped as someone touched her shoulder, her hand immediately grasping for the snub-nose at her garter. Peter raised his eyebrows, "Nice view. What's got you so on edge?"

Olivia let out a sigh of relief, "Peter. Sorry, I was a little out of it."

"Can I sit here?" He questioned, motioning to the chair across the small table from her, and she nodded.

"What are you doing here?" Olivia questioned, and he smiled.

"Just enjoying what Atlantic has to offer. And I found my way all by myself," Peter said.

"Good boy. Then you've seen our living dead Bishop."

"Not exactly. I'm still waiting for the show to start…" he looked up at the clock, "… which should have happened over an hour ago."

xXx

Walter settled her listless form onto the bench seat, tucking a blanket around her and shutting the door quietly. To anyone, it would look as if she were sleeping… "Not as if you were kidnapping her," someone said, and Walter jumped, his hand darting to his Thompson in the front seat beside her. He stopped before he could raise it.

"September," he growled, glaring.

September stood perfectly still in the alley, his head tilting slightly with curiosity, "You were going to shoot me?" he questioned.

"I should. This is all your fault, you know."

"Mine?"

"Yes! If you hadn't shown up, telling her about Peter, none of this would have happened!" Walter snapped, "But now… now…" Walter looked over her shoulder at Astrid, slumped in the seat, and he let out a sigh, pushing his hat up from his forehead to rub his eyes, "What am I doing, September? Everything was just fine, and then things just started happening… and I don't know what I'm doing, anymore."

"Things were never fine, Walter," September said, "you could exist, but things were bound to happen, eventually. I tried to warn you."

"Your warnings are the pits," Walter joked mournfully.

"Then heed this one. You can't keep running, Walter. Things like this will only continue to happen, if you do."

"But I have to protect her!" Walter insisted, "She's the only one that ever gave a damn about me, you know that…"

"Then stop putting her in harm's way. Stop this where it starts, Walter- you know you can."

They were silent for a few moments, "How?" Walter asked at last, but he was dreading the answer, "I've done such terrible things, September. How do I know I won't be making another horrible mistake?"

"Do you think she will be pleased, upon awakening?"

Walter laughed quietly, "No."

"Then make her happy, when she awakens. Change the world for her- because she cannot keep changing it for you." September placed his fedora back onto his head, and turned for the back door, "I will tell them that the show has been cancelled."

xXx


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"What the hell do you mean, the show has been canceled?!" Amos was demanding, "Where the hell is Bishop?! I'm running a business, not a charity! You get him on that stage, or he's fired! Where's Farnsworth?! Where the hell is everyone?!"

"Amos Luciano?"

He spun of his heel, a vein on his forehead pulsing suddenly as he leveled on Peter, "What's it to you, eh?! Backstage is for employees only!"

Olivia flashed her badge, and he looked as if he had choked on his own comments, "We're just here to have a look around is all. Thank you for your kind hospitality."

"Listen, miss-"

"Dunham."

"Yeah. Listen, this happens every night, it's nothing to worry about. Certianly not something that warrants the attention of the cops-"

"Mr. Luciano, please allow me to assess the situation. You said that Walter Bishop is late for his performance?" Peter was impressed. Olivia was an attractive woman, but still a woman- it was amazing how she seized the role of authority, in such a situation. He only watched quietly, as her eyes spanned the frameworks behind the dark stage, thought whirring behind her eyes alertly.

"Yeah," Amos responded, "But he does it all the time. He'll show up, you'll see."

"And the singer, Astrid Farnsworth? Is her punctuality lacking?"

"She isn't late, if that's what you're asking. Hey, have I seen you someplace?" Amos questioned, pointing to Peter, who shook his head.

"Hmm." Olivia turned to address Peter, "Well, I don't know if something happened. You said you and Astrid arrived together, and if I left Bishop to his devices this afternoon… there's no telling what might have happened. But if they have been killed… I don't understand the order of the killings."

"Killings?" Amos questioned tensely, "Listen, lady, ain't nobody that gets in here that doesn't belong here-"

"How do you know?" Olivia questioned, turning her cynical eye on him.

Amos shifted uncomfortably, "I've got a doorman. I can't have gutter pups stumbling in out of the street."

Peter raised his eyebrows, "Where is this doorman?"

"He should be at the door, or unemployed." Amos snapped his fingers sharply in an exclamation of epiphany, "That's it, isn't it? You and Bishop! You two look just alike, don't you? You could be his kid!"

Peter glanced between Amos and Olivia, swallowing back dread with a smile, "Get your eyes checked, buddy." He passed Olivia on his way toward the greenroom and beyond.

Olivia still watched him silently as they met with the doorman, a tall, rather goofy-looking fellow who seemed to be a little too absorbed with the cluster of moths battering at a hanging light bulb to heed their approach, "Brandon!" Amos barked, making him start slightly, "You've been here all night, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir," Brandon answered, glancing between the three of them cautiously.

"You see that Bishop clown come in here?"

"Yes, sir. But he left, a little while ago."

"How? Did he leave with anyone?" Peter questioned.

"He left with Miss Astrid. 'Said she wasn't feeling well, had 'the vapors'." Brandon made mid-air quotations, and looked at them quizzically, "What does that even mean? Southern people have a different language, I swear."

"You idiot!" Amos snapped, making him start again, "Why didn't you stop them?!"

"Miss Astrid was out cold, Mr. Luciano. And if she's sick, she can't be working, it wouldn't be proper, she could hurt herself."

"Did anyone else come through, after Walter and Astrid left?" Peter cut in before Amos could shout again, "Someone unfamiliar? Anyone suspicious?"

"That creepy bald guy. But I try not to talk to him, he never answers. He never causes any trouble- he used to come around a lot, a while ago- I think he and Miss Astrid had something going on, he was always bringing her strange stuff, like chili peppers. Then, he just stopped coming around. Until here recently." He raised his brows in realization, "Do you think they're back steady?"

"Come on," Peter said, leading Olivia outside as Amos started in on Brandon.

"I should have realized it ages ago," she finally chuckled as Peter was looking around the alley for anything out-of-place, "That you're Bishop's son."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter said flatly, shuffling through some rubbish with the toe of his boot.

"You're protecting him, aren't you? That's why you followed me here, you knew I was looking for him."

Peter turned to her with a cold glare, "That man is dead to me, for all it matters. Not that it's any of your business. My interest here has nothing to do with the great Walter Bishop- so do you want my help or not?"

Olivia watched him cynically, "Why are you here?" She asked at last.

Peter sighed, pushing his cap back to scratch his forehead, "I don't know. I guess… because I don't have anything to go back to. I'm tired of sleeping. I thought that it was something I wanted, just to live my life out of the way, but when you came in to the diner…" Peter glanced back up at her, clad in her red cocktail dress and black fur, still as elegant and mysterious as the day he had first seen her- perhaps more so, with the gun strapped to her thigh, "I _had _to chase you."

Olivia blinked at him, trying to look thoughtful and cool, even as color touched her features. He knew that, even in the short duration they had been in contact, she was a woman that liked to preserve even the illusion of control, and even if what he had told her seemed to come out all wrong, to him, at last she smiled, "Then come with me to New York."

xXx

Astrid was slow to awaken, and even slower still to register the hum of the engine and her warm place on the leather bench seat, her cheek nestled against Walter's shoulder, his arm around her slumped form in support and protection.

She sat up immediately, and exclaimed as her head grew dizzy, and she nearly tipped forward into the dash before he caught her again, "Easy, Cher. They'll be slow to wear off, if you push yourself too hard."

"Don't… don't touch me," Astrid said, feeling a cold sweat start just above her eyebrows as she pushed out of his hold again, raising a hand to steady herself against the opposite door, "get off me, Walter…" But her vision was already blurring with tears, "I hate you, Walter…"

"You're ill, my dear. You should be resting, I may have overdosed you-"

"I hate you, Walter!" She struck him in the ear with a quaking fist, causing him to wince and swerve on the empty night highway. Tears ran down her face as she cought herself against his shoulder heavily, "I hate you! You're a liar!" She swallowed, her eyes squeezing shut, "I'm going to be sick…"

Walter pulled the car off the side of the road, shutting off the engine and helping her out of the car. She held his collar, wishing she could strangle him as she wept, trying to hold down her stomach. At length, Walter produced his flask from the inside pocket of his coat, twisting off the small cap and offering it to her lips. Astrid shook her head weakly, and Walter shifted his grip around her, forcing the liquid into her mouth. Astrid swallowed down the burning alcohol, the wretched flavor and warm temperature making her features flush hotly, "I hate you," she croaked again.

When she regained consciousness again, a splotchy, red dawn was growing over the horizon, and eye shadow stained the front of Walter's shirt, where her face rested. She had been crying in her sleep.

Astrid shifted in Walter's lap, his jacket slipping off of her sequined shoulder as his sleepless red eyes turned to her. He said nothing, even as she pulled the coat back up, slipping out of his warm hold and onto the rest of the cold leather seat. She rubbed her eyelids, coughing quietly.

"Where are we?" Astrid asked at last.

"Just outside of Jersey city," Walter answered, his drawl raspy in the quiet.

"_Why_ are we outside of Jersey City?" Walter didn't answer. Astrid frowned, "Fine. I don't care anymore, Walter. Take me home." She delved for her handbag in the floorboard, retrieving a mirror and a handkerchief to begin removing her makeup.

Walter continued to watch her, motionless.

"Take me home, Walter," Astrid repeated, snapping her compact shut. She glared at him, "They taught you proper English in the south, didn't they? You're supposed to be some sort of doctor, aren't you?"

Walter's jaw tightened as he bit the inside of his cheek.

"But I guess I don't know what I'm asking. You must have been a pretty terrible doctor- did you cut your own finger off, is that where it went? Do you even remember where I live? You can't remember my name…"

"Astrid," he said.

"Oh? That's great, Walter! Fantastic, even! How long is it going to take you to remember that you have a son that you abandoned? Do you remember _his_ name?!" her high sarcasm was working its way into hysteria as she watched the pain in his eyes, his expression stoic as he continued to watch her silently, even as she pressed deeper into his wounds, her words like acid, "But what's it matter, when you're burning the candle at both ends?! Easy come, easy go- it doesn't matter who you throw away, so long as you can keep hitting the tables!" She was fairly screaming, when she finished, at last snapping his strings.

Walter turned his eyes away from her, toward the rising sun, flashing in the light, looking as if he had just been shot in the heart. His hand was trembling as he fumbled for the key in the ignition. But just as quickly as his show of sadness was to arrive, it disappeared again, washed away on the grave creases of his face, settling into an expression of exhaustion.

Astrid's eyes ached sharply as tears that she did not have left forced themselves to her eyes, "You threw me away, Walter."

Walter glanced over at her in shock, then back at the wheel. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, barring his teeth in frustration. At last, he leaned across the seat, brushing dry tears away from her mascara-streaked cheeks and pressing his lips to hers. Immediately, Astrid moved to push him away, before her fingers dug into his shoulder blades, pulling him closer, her brows arching in sorrow and pain, "Walter," she whispered against his cheek, when they broke away at last, "I love you."

Walter shut his eyes, his arms encircling her tightly as he pulled her flat to his chest, "Please," he pleaded, his voice pitiful with fear and desperation, "don't leave me. Please. I promise I'll fix all of it. But… I swear to god, I'll die, if I loose you…" He buried his face in her hair, the rest of his statements muffled.

"You have to stop it, Walter. You can't keep throwing me away, okay?" Astrid took his face in her hands, her eyes searching his expression, "Promise we'll do it. Together."

"I promise," Walter rasped. He gave her a broken smile, and she kissed him again.

xXx


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen.

"You don't own anything that doesn't make you look like a steel worker, do you?" Olivia questioned.

Peter looked up from under the hood of the car, a smile on his grime-streaked face, "What do you mean?"

Olivia only nodded distastefully at his greyed undershirt and grungy work jeans, then leaned forward to pluck at his cap, "I mean these."

Peter shrugged, returning to his task, "I always figured that it wasn't about the clothes, but that it was the man underneath that mattered."

"Well, it can't hurt not to look like you just came out of the mill," Olivia muttered, leaning back against the gloss of the wheel well.

"I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"I knew that there had to be some sort of catch, to you. Everybody's got one, and I found yours."

Olivia frowned, "What are you talking about?"

"Well, with you. You're a smart, charismatic, beautiful woman… but you like your clothes."

Olivia flushed slightly, "That's not true. No one is going to respect my position, if I'm dressed like a- a-"

"A steel worker?" Peter questioned with a smile, tugging at his suspenders.

"Precisely," Olivia huffed, crossing her arms across her front. Peter chuckled, tinkering on in silence for a few minutes before she asked, "what about you, then? What appears to be your catch?" Peter looked up at her, "It only seems fair, if you know mine."

Peter shook his head, "You already know that one." and he continued, after her confused look, "Smart, charismatic, beautiful woman that dress straight out of the pictures." He straightened, wiping his hands on the rag in his pocket before shutting the hood with a click, "Done. The belt shouldn't be giving us any trouble for a while. At least until we get in to Jersey, in any case. Then we can burn the thing, I don't care."

"Buy you a coke, for your trouble?" Olivia offered with a smile.

"Why, thank you kindly, ma'am," Peter answered brightly, "just let me wash up a bit, and we can head out." Olivia nodded and headed into the convenience store, and Peter grabbed his overshirt and headed into the restroom.

He shut the door, doffing his cap onto the mirror shelf and twisted on the tap, letting the water flow over his head before splashing his face. His hand groped for the soap bar near the basin, and he began to lather the dirt and oil away.

The door handle rattled, and Peter called, "Just a moment!" he began to rinse the suds away, and grabbed the towel, rubbing his stubble dry.

"This car out here is yours, then?"

Peter paused, in pulling on his shirt, "What's it to you, mister?" he replied. He was buttoning and tucking in his shirt tails as he fumbled for the doorknob. He blinked in shock at the man that stood before him.

"Peter Bishop," the stranger said, no expression visible, behind his dark glasses.

"Have… have we met?" Peter questioned.

"Once. Long ago." he turned his head, bald beneath his grey fedora, "This is the car you drove, when you played for the Sox."

Peter chuckled uneasily, "You must have me confused with someone else, I never played-"

"Your father is in danger," the stranger continued, "I realize that you have every right to hate him. But there will soon come a time, when he will need your help… and for both of your sakes, I can only hope that you make the right decision. Goodbye for now, Peter Bishop." He tipped his hat, turning and starting away. Peter stared after him, as he held the door for Olivia as she emerged with two glass bottles of dark cola. She thanked him and continued, before she paused, glancing back in the direction he had gone. She shook her head.

Peter met her at the car, and she passed the bottle into his hands, 'What's wrong with you? You're all in a tizzy."

Peter shook his head, "It's… it's nothing." he twisted open the cap of the pop, taking a drink, "Let's get going."

Olivia shrugged, "you're the boss."

xXx

Two figures stood as silhouettes in the wide door of the airplane hangar, one in a staunch uniform, the other in a button-up and slacks that looked like he'd slept in them, on the plane ride over from the mainland. Both wore dark sunglasses, in the piercing sunlight, and perspiration weighed on their collars, in the muggy heat. The shade and steady breeze of the hangar was a welcome change, their vision the shade of seaweed, as they peered in at jumbled masses of fighter plane parts hanging on chains that stretched down from the high ceiling.

"Hello?" the uniformed man called in, his voice echoing metallically.

"Do you think he's out for lunch?" his companion joked, his hands in his pockets.

The officer tipped his cap back on his head, rubbing sweat from his face and delving in to his leather briefcase to draw out a think manila file, "Dr. Bishop?" he called again.

After waiting a few moments for no response, the two ventured deeper into the hangar, toward the sound of grainy jazz over the radio, in a separated room decorated with wooden tiki statues and a propeller ceiling fan among the communication equipmnet and maps. The casual man smiled, "Looks cozy." he moved to the desk, shifting through a few unopened letters, looking like they were written in a childish script.

"Dr. Feynman, please," the officer said, a bit pleadingly, "I don't think we have time to be-"

The wooden door out of the office banged open, and the officer started slightly, at the tanned, shirtless form with dripping hair trudging inside, propping a surf board against the wall and drying his face on the sleeve of the military-issue cover-all tied around his waist. He kicked sandy flip-flops at the wall, moving to wipe his feet on the doormat before he realized he had company, "…Hello?" he questioned slowly.

"Dr. Walter Bishop?" The officer questioned.

He delved into the back pocket of his cover-all, pulling out a pair of thick-framed BCGs and pushing them on to his face, "Yes?"

"I'm Dr. William Bell," the officer said, offering a hand, "I've heard a lot about you, Dr. Bishop." They shook hands, Walter still looking confused, and William indicated to Feynman, "This is Dr. Richard-"

"Feynman? Dick Feynman?" Walter questioned, smiling, "Dear god man, where have you been?" they laughed, shaking hands vigorously.

"I could ask the same thing of you, Walt," Richard replied fondly, "It's been ages- last I'd heard, you dropped off the face of the earth, after Harvard."

Walter gave a one-shoulder shrug, "Eh. Have a seat, gentlemen- I must apologize, I'm not decent… can I get you two something to drink?"

"Uh- I don't think so-" William started.

"That would be great, Walt," Feynman smiled. He plopped into a decrepit-looking swivel chair, and motioned for William to do the same. Sighing and looking down at his watch, William dropped into his seat.

Walter shuffled around in an old, empty oil drum in a cool corner of the office, pulling out a few long-necked, green bottles, passing one to each of his guests and having a seat at his desk, "So, to what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?"

Richard nodded to William, and William explained, "As you well know, Dr. Bishop, it is the view of the US government that the war with the axis is coming to a head."

"Based on what?" Walter questioned, twisting the cap off of his beer.

"Intelligence," William said, thrusting the thick manila file at him, "The notes are here, and some of our worst fears are very close to being realized- our enemies are only steps away from gaining the nuclear advantage."

"Like bombs," Walter said, poking at the file without much interest.

"Big kabooms," Richard agreed.

"And what do you want me for?" Walter questioned, taking a drink.

"You're one of the best minds in our country, Dr. Bishop. It has been the task of our government to gather our intellectual resources, myself and Dr. Feynman among them to, ah, combat this… instability." William delved into his briefcase again to draw out a folded set of off-blue papers, "These are your transfer papers. Your orders are to accompany us to Los Alamos."

Walter took the orders, unfolding them enough to read the stamp on the front, before he tossed them in with the rest of his paperwork an a shrug, "Nah."

William blinked in shock for a few moments, before stammering, "B-but-"

"Do I look like a government lapdog to you, Dr. Bell?" Walter questioned, and William reddened with offense, "I'm here for a paycheck. I'm not eager for attention, for advancement. I have found that it has always been in my own best interest to avoid drawing attention at all costs. And that's exactly what I plan on doing now."

"Dr. Bishop, this is not a matter that can be argued-"

"Watch me," Walter growled, and William glared.

"Have you ever been to Los Alamos, Dr. Bishop?"

"Yep. 'Hated it."

"You're lying."

Walter smiled at him, "Hard to tell, isn't it?"

William looked at the point of explosion, before Richard stopped him with a hand to the chest and a laugh, "Alright, Bishop, alright. We get it, you bluffed us out. But what we're talking about is a threat to national welfare. Nuclear capabilities… they're not just for stopping the war. You must have thought of the implications, for new sources of energy, the possibilities…"

Walter looked slightly uncomfortable, as Richard took another drink of his beer, "Well, I have. Who hasn't? But it's a dangerous thing, I personally don't think we have the methods of dealing with such an energy-"

"Come to Los Alamos," Richard said plainly, "Let me show you what we've been doing, while you've been tanning on this rock."

Walter looked between William and Richard, them took a drink.

"Orders or no, it's your choice," Richard said, and William knew enough to keep his mouth shut.

And it was a choice that, to this day, he did not know if he'd made correctly. He had made so many decisions in his life, and they had accordingly lead him the wrong way… this one had probably been wrong, too.

But he'd _won._ He just had to keep _winning._

Not that he'd ever won before.

"What's got you so down, gloomy Gus?" Astrid joked, and Walter looked up from staring down from the hotel window, at the busy street below- a place that had made him feel small and safe, in the large hotel room. She was drying her hair with a towel, standing in the doorway to the bathroom in a thick bathrobe.

Walter hid his thoughts with a smile, "Feeling better, bluebird?"

Astrid smiled, "Yeah. Have you seen this bathtub? It's massive!"

Walter nodded, "It's nice." he was quiet for a few moments as Astrid looked through her purse on the bed, drawing out a bottle of fragrance and dabbing the nape of her neck with scent, "I've never taken you out, have I?"

Astrid chuckled, "I haven't thought much about it, Walter. You- well, you've always been pretty preoccupied, I just tried to enjoy the time we had when you weren't-"

"May I take you out, tonight?"

Astrid looked up, "What? Why?"

"Because we're in New York, my dear. And… you've always deserved someone, to take you out." Walter rose to his feet with a small sigh of effort, sliding his hands into his pockets, "We could go anywhere you want."

Astrid shook her head with a smile, "Walter, we can't go out. There is someone out there that might be trying to kill you, it's too risky."

"Please let me take you out," Walter persisted, stepping around the small sitting table and making a comically glum face, "Pretty please, with sugar on top?"

Astrid laughed, "Walter, no! Besides, I don't have anything to wear but my stage dress-" she paused and he put his arms around her waist, drawing her in close.

"You look pretty as a picture, just like this," Walter replied with a smile, forgetting to catch his slipping accent, "I'll bet it'll turn those designers on their ears. The big apple will never be the same, after they see you."

Astrid chuckled, "Well, _I'm_ fine. _You_ have been wearing the same clothes for how long? And your hair is a train wreck." she reached up to pluck at his curls poking out from under his hat with a fond frown, "You need a bath and a miracle, to be even remotely presentable."

"They'd be too busy staring at you to notice a homely old man."

"You're not homely."

"_You're_ beautiful, mon cher." His thumb traced her soft cheek, and she raised a hand to touch his, color crossing her features, and he leaned in for a kiss. After a few moments, he added, "I noticed you didn't say anything about my being old…"

"You are old!" Astrid chuckled, pressing her cheek to his chest, and Walter sighed.

"A homely, dirty, old man," he said with a grin, "I don't know why you're still sticking around, if I'm proving to be such an undesirable…"

Astrid smiled back at him, "I'll be the judge of that," she replied, giving him another kiss.

Her palms pressed against his chest, and he followed her motions backward, the back of his knees meeting the corner of the bed, and his shoulders the mattress, as her form stretched across him, constricting in all the right places. Walter let out a breathless sigh, and his muscles tightened as her palms sought support on his stomach, drawing her knees up to either side, on the mattress. His eyes moved up her body, her nearly open bathrobe, and at last to her large, dark, doe-brown eyes, perhaps even more beautiful than anything else.

Walter smiled at her. A smile that may have meant a lot of things, but mostly- "I love you."

His fedora and his thoughts was soon lost among the pillows, as his fingers traced circles around her spine.

xXx


End file.
